ONE
by Seriafina
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock/Molly/Charles. John/Mary. Click to read full details. -"You thought you were the only one. You were wrong. You're not that special."
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

**Content Guide**

**Genre**: Mystery/Crime/Hurt/comfort/drama/Romance

**Rating**: TV-14/T/Guidance rating: For mild language, violence and some adult content.

**Characters**: Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Charles Howard (Made up), John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Sebastian, and Mycroft.

**Synopsis**: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock returns to London after two years of hiding and is expecting a few changes but is surprised to find that everyone, despite everything, has gone on with their lives. John is married to Mary, Molly is dating Charles and Lestrade has a new 'go-to' guy for his cases, Charles Howard, Molly's 'boyfriend'. Charles is, by far, just like Sherlock, a genius detective who _actually_ works with everyone and is a 'good man'. They hate each other. Can Sherlock out-smart Charles on a new case which involves a murderer who likes clean shots through the head? Or will Sherlock be forever replaced by this new Consulting Detective 2.0?

**Notes**: Story will probably be around ten chapters or more. This will be sort of a Sherlock/Molly/Charles romantic triangle so if you're expecting some Johnlock love, I warn you it will be very platonic and friendly. Also, this my first attempt writing fanfiction but not my first attempt writing. Also, I'm not British (American) but I tried to sound English in my writing as best as I could. Hopefully, I got the characters down right, if not, any type of feedback on what I need to improve is accepted with open arms. :)

Also, I am aware this is a long chapter and if you guys want them shorter for your convenience, please let me know. All reviews/comments and stuff are very much appreciated. :)

_None of the characters belong to me except Charles Howard who is made up. And I am not making money from this?  
_

* * *

**Chapter One**

**###  
**

Ever get the feeling somebody's staring at you? That's how this man felt. The stranger standing next to him at the airport line check in was eying his key chain with an arched brow. The man smiled. "Home is where the heart is," he said, reading his key chain's quote.

The stranger lifted his chin, not particularly interested.

"Home is with my wife," the man added, turning the key around to reveal a picture of a young blonde woman holding a baby. "And my newborn son, Matthew."

"Hm, where's home if you don't have a heart?" the stranger asked.

The man was surprised by his thick accent. At first he wasn't sure what he had said. After a few seconds, he replied. "Well then, may god have mercy on those who don't have a heart."

The stranger cracked a smile. The two women at the check in called the men forward to examine their passports. The man handed his over and looked to his right. The other woman opened the stranger's passport, looked at it, and then perused the tall curly haired man who stood with his back straight, like a prideful lion.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"The one and only," he answered, a one sided smiled playing on his lips.

**###**

"You don't have to do this, there are other ways. Please!"

The person in the dark had raised an arm, pointing the gun directly at the man's head as he stood in the corner of his room with his hands up, his eyebrows together, begging for mercy.

"There are no other ways," the figure in the dark answered.

His voice trembled. "There are."

"You should've just changed their minds. I'm sorry."

The trigger was pulled. The gunshot echoed through the halls of the loft and as easily as the perpetrator came in, vanished before the man's wife had the chance to open the door.

**###**

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street and inhaled the familiar scent of London. It had been two years since the last time he stood before this building. He wondered what had changed and what had remained the same. He had a few theories but none which were conclusive. He wasn't a psychic, after all they didn't exist. Briskly, he dragged his suitcase up to the steps and knocked on the door.

It opened a few seconds later, revealing a Mrs. Hudson dressed in a purple dress with a large blue pendant around her neck. Trust some things to never change. He smiled as her eyes widened and she froze on the doorstep.

"Sher…lock?" she managed to croak.

"Mrs. Hudson. I've come to reclaim my loft," Sherlock answered. "I hope you haven't rented it out, actually, even if you did, just kick them out. I'll be needing a place to stay."

Mrs. Hudson, still shocked to see a dead man walking, blinked rapidly. "You're supposed to be dead, Sherlock…"

"No, not really." He shook his head, nonchalantly.

"But…how did you – they saw you fall, Sherlock!" She couldn't seem to stop saying his name, as if calling it out loud made the unbelievable more plausible.

He smiled. "Come on now, Mrs. Hudson. Did you really think I was dead?"

"Yes."

He frowned instantly. "Mrs. Hudson, it's quite cold outside." He sniffed and bucked his shoulders up like a child, hoping she'd let him in first.

Mrs. Hudson had spent a couple good years learning of Sherlock and his habits. She didn't ever once really think he was dead, the boy wouldn't have gone out like that; suicide wasn't Sherlock's style. Still eyeing him suspiciously, she held the door open for him.

"It's really you, Sherlock?"

"I could give you results to a DNA test to prove myself, but I doubt I'll need to go that far with you, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, it's me. The one and only, Sherlock Holmes." He grinned and followed the old lady.

"Well, that's a relief," she said climbing the stairs with a hand on her hip. "Your loft hasn't been rented out." Sherlock presumed it had gotten worse, her hip, and made a mental note to give her some of his 'medicine'. She unlocked the door once they reached the second level and allowed him in.

Sherlock stepped into the center of the living room and scanned the area. Everything had been left the way it had been before. His skull sat gingerly above the fireplace, the armchairs hadn't been moved, papers and books were left in their respective places, the dishes in the kitchen hadn't been touched, and it smelled like an attic that hadn't been opened in centuries. With a long thin finger, he swept the thick layer of dust off the desk and inspected it. Nothing had changed. At all.

"Care to explain why my loft hasn't been rented out?" Sherlock asked, turning around and facing Mrs. Hudson inquiringly. Mrs. Hudson wasn't one to keep a loft because she missed her tenant.

"All I can say is that an anonymous, generous person had been paying your rent with specific instructions to not touch it," she explained. "Honestly Sherlock, do you perhaps have a lover?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Hudson." He took another glance at the wall with his yellow smiley face. The bullet holes still there. He wondered who was sentimental enough to pay for an unused, untouched flat.

"John?" he asked. He hadn't seen or kept tabs on John Watson in the last two years besides the day when he watched his best friend drop off flowers at his fake tombstone. He could've done so easily, keep tabs, even if he was considered a dead man, but he didn't.

"He moved out, not too long after your – um – death." She made a face as if she couldn't believe the words that were escaping her mouth.

Sherlock presumed that John was probably now living a very mundane life as he always wanted as a doctor. Knowing his salary, it was still a long shot John would pay for two flats. He was cheap. "I see…" He picked up a book and dusted it off.

"He's married now."

Sherlock paused and turned his head to Mrs. Hudson, narrowing his eyes. "Married?" John could barely keep a girlfriend for over a month, how had he managed to tie the knot? The news was enough for a look of surprise to cross Sherlock's face. Not many things could catch him off guard but this…this was interesting.

"She's a nice lady. Name's Mary."

"Mary," Sherlock muttered, unfazed and continued his assessment. "Mary and John…" He smirked thinking how much of a dull dove Mary must be to have married John Watson. He dropped the book he was holding and smiled. "I'd like my flat back now, Mrs. Hudson."

"I-I'll contact the anonymous renter and let 'em know," she said quickly.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear." She took a long hard look at the man. "It's good to know you're not dead, Sherlock. We were all very sad."

"I apologise for making you…sad, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be sure to make compensations."

Before she left, she approached Sherlock and gave him a large hug. He patted her back and then she turned around and left him alone, disappearing into her room.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile and began texting.

_To: John Watson_

_When are you free? I have something to tell you._

_SH_

He put his mobile back into his pocket. Before he met John, there was still one more person he had to meet.

**###**

Molly pulled on her plastic gloves and observed the bullet wound in the cadaver's head with her small lips pressed together.

"Find anything interesting?"

Molly turned her head to look at Charles. She frowned and shook her head. Charles leaned against the counter with his arms across his defined chest. He was wearing a beige trench coat. His blonde hair was trimmed and styled neatly, showing off a fair forehead and a mole above his left eyebrow.

His liquid like green eyes scanned Molly up and down and he smiled. "When are you getting off?"

She smiled widely. "Early tonight. At seven." She pulled off her gloves and dropped them in the trash can, not wanting to see the carnal look Charles had on, she blushed despite her efforts.

Picking up a few documents, Molly turned but was caught off guard when the doors to the mortuary opened up. Sherlock walked in with his hands in his coat pocket, his scarf secured around his neck, and his curly hair brushing over his eyes just slightly. She dropped the documents onto the floor, papers spilled around her feet. She stared at him as he approached her, paying no attention to the Charles who had grown alert. Her concentration was solely on the tall slender man who didn't seem to have changed a fraction from the last time she saw him.

"S-Sherlock?" Molly stuttered, wide-eyed.

"Molly." He stopped a few steps in front of her and smiled at the dumbfounded expression she wore. He was having quite a bit of fun today with all the surprises. Perhaps he should fake his death more often. Molly Hooper was the one who helped him after his majestic swan dive off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital and he could've been a real dead man if it wasn't for her. However, she clearly never thought he'd come back after that day. He had just proved her wrong.

"Who's this?" Charles asked, stepping closer to Molly and leaning down to pick up the documents. "Friend of yours?"

Sherlock didn't waste a second to scan him.

Caucasian male, French decent based on the curvature of his nose, tall, possibly taller than Sherlock, and in his late thirties, not married but based on how he picked up the documents for Molly meant he had feelings for her in one way or another. Hm, wonderful. His beige trench coat, expensive brand, equaled the possible fact he made a decent amount of money, lawyer most likely, with a passion for fashion. His finely manicured fingernails and precision haircut showed he was someone who enjoyed keeping up personal hygiene and could be a possible narcissist or OCD, maybe both. Sherlock tried to find anything else, something more define and concrete about the man's personality but all he came up with was that this man, whoever he was, was cleaner than a bar of soap.

"Ah, yes, something like that," Molly answered after a minute. He handed her the documents and she flustered with them. "Butterfingers," she explained with a nervous laugh. "Thank you, Charles."

"No worries." He regarded Sherlock askew.

Molly blinked repeatedly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "This is, um…" She wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock greeted, extending his hand because it was the rightfully social thing to do when one introduced himself to another.

"Sherlock Holmes? The dead guy?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows as if he was ridiculing him.

Sherlock face was stoic. "Unfortunately, I'm very much alive."

He blinked, confused. Molly looked back and forth at the both of them, not sure what to say in this circumstance.

"Charles Howard. Nice to meet you." He said, dropping the subject. "One day, you'll tell me your real name." He sounded sure of himself.

Sherlock looked away. This man was an idiot, then again, only idiots or evil consulting criminals would fall for Molly.

"I was wondering if I could speak to you, Molly. Alone, if that's alright."

"A-alone?" She looked at Charles as if she was asking for permission.

"Okay," Charles answered with a nod. "I'll just be out then. I should get back to work anyway. See you at seven?"

She nodded. "Thank you."

Charles glanced at Sherlock. "Don't keep my girlfriend too long." He said it in a way that was more serious than teasing.

So it wasn't just passing feelings, it was actually a relationship. Even more wonderful. "Oh don't worry, I doubt that's possible," Sherlock replied, forcing a smile.

Once the doors closed, the morgue was empty besides three bodies, one of which was more dead than Sherlock.

"Case?" he asked, observing the cadaver out of curiosity.

"Yes, second murder in the last two weeks. Clean gunshot through the cranium," Molly said. "Same as the other."

"Interesting…" Ideas were already flowing through Sherlock's mind and for a brief minute, he forgot Molly was even in the room.

"I didn't think you were going to come back," Molly whispered, hugging the documents to her chest and watching him with her large round eyes.

He glanced at her, realizing her existence. "Oh. Well, I did."

"Why?"

He thought before answering. "Home sweet home?" The answer didn't work for Molly. Of course, she was probably one of the few people who knew him best after John. "I got bored, obviously," he finally answered. "There's only so much a dead man can do without being found out that he isn't in fact, dead at all. Little cases to keep my brain simulated," he explained, pointing at his temple. "I flew to different countries when staying in one place became too dangerous or too tedious, using various aliases and cards with stolen social security numbers. After two years of roaming, I suppose I just got bored."

"Maybe you're just, um, tired?"

"Tired?" Sherlock asked, standing straight. "How can I be tired?"

Molly looked nervous, like a student who was unsure if her answer was right or wrong when called out upon. "Well, it just seems like, you know…" She breathed in deeply, gathering courage. "Sometimes I visit my home too, when I get tired of working postmortems and seeing all these dead bodies or when I go through a bad break-up. It's nice to come home."

He gave her a dubious stare. "But you thought I'd never come back."

"I was wrong."

"Obviously." He paused, staring at the dead cadaver and then turned back to her. "Thank you, Molly."

She blinked. "For what?"

"For helping me escape," he said. "I never said my thank you, did I?"

Molly gave a brief smile. "You were never one to follow such protocols."

Sherlock pushed his lips together and sighed through his nose. "You're right. All rather dreary things." He stepped in her direction and put his hands back into his coat pocket. "Your boyfriend is rather clean." He didn't want to talk about himself anymore.

Molly nodded. "He's like that, clean. But I think he's the one," she added. "I really do."

Sherlock squinted and lifted his chin, scanning Molly. She was rather clean herself but that was because she worked as a pathologist and not because her boyfriend had rubbed off on her. Her sense of fashion had increased slightly. Instead of those usual dreadful sweaters that always seemed to be a size too big, she had replaced them with more office-fitting clothing. He looked down and noticed she was wearing thigh-hugging black slacks with clean black shoes. She actually matched and that meant she was very serious about this Charles man. Her hair was side swept into a clean braid and the color of her lipstick was complimentary to what she was wearing. Molly also applied light make-up in which didn't stand out and didn't alter her appearance much. She was, apparently, trying very hard and she was passing.

"Is there anything you need?"

"Hm?" He didn't catch her question.

"Is there anything you need?" she repeated.

Sherlock turned and looked at the cadaver over his shoulder. "Right, is there a possibility this case might be worth my attention?" Sherlock needed something to keep himself busy. A good murder was a delightful place to start.

Molly scratched her head. "Perhaps. Scotland Yard hasn't got much information. It was all done very neatly with little to no evidence." Molly played with her hands. "Do you plan on contacting Lestrade?"

"Of course." He looked at her sideways.

"So you're…really coming back?"

"I'm already back."

"You're going to stay…right?"

"Should I?"

"Yes." She said it quickly, too quickly and caught herself. "I mean, I…missed you, I meant to say _we_ missed you. Especially John…" She frowned but reformed her lips into a smile. "I'm glad you're back for whatever it's worth."

He stared at her from the corner of his eyes. Molly was mostly an open book and he could deduce she was completely over him and her stuttering was mainly from surprise and possible nostalgic emotions but otherwise, her heart was already with Charles. He supposed this was a good thing, being friends with Molly without having to continuously worry and consider her affections.

"Right." He turned to leave. "The lipstick – it suits you."

She smiled genuinely. "Charles picked it out for me."

Sherlock had already made up his mind about Charles. He was an idiot, like everyone else but if he could get Molly to change this much, perhaps there was something he was good at. Or he was gay and using Molly as a cover. Whatever the case, Sherlock was sure it wouldn't last long.

"You'll be seeing more of me," Sherlock called, pushing open the morgue door and strolling out.

**###**

John stared at his text as he walked through the cemetery. He tried to text back to the anonymous sender countless times but never received an answer. His heart felt heavy, his breathing constricted as he approached the tombstone. Sherlock's grave.

He stopped visiting Sherlock's grave when he married Mary last year. She was the only person who seemed to understand him and mended the wounds his best friend's departure left in its wake. The once single exception he made was to visit on the anniversary of his death…and when that time approached, he usually fell ill. Sick with sadness and worry but he believed, or at least a small part of him always did believe that Sherlock was alive. Maybe it was wishful thinking, telling himself over and over again that maybe the genius bastard had cheated death. John had seen his friend jump from the building with his own eyes, listened to his last words but the memory was still surreal, like a bad dream.

This morning he awoke to a strange text from 'SH', wishing to meet him and through those ten little words, he could hear Sherlock's real voice and he wanted to believe more than anything in the world that it was truly him.

As the gravesite came into view, he halted, his breath caught in his lungs. A man was standing in front of the tombstone with his hands in his coat pockets, his collar was propped up and untamed strings of curly hair flew in the crisp air. John felt like he had been dropped into a pit, immobile, scared to go closer and see a face he didn't want to see. John had witnessed his friends die and it tore him apart but he had never seen his friends come back to life…

As if his presence was noticed, the man turned halfway, revealing his face.

Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. Swallowed. Then opened them again and stared at him from the distance. He looked away, overcome with strange emotions. It was him…it really was Sherlock and John wasn't sure if he wanted to run over and pound the git senseless or embrace him for living.

After a few seconds, he gathered himself and approached Sherlock in a march. They stood a foot apart, staring each other down. John was angry and confused while Sherlock's expression was dripping with apathy.

"You're…alive."

"Good deduction, doctor," Sherlock replied almost instantly.

John hardened his jaw. There were so many questions he wanted to ask and he wasn't sure which one to ask first, whether he should say anything at all or just punch him across the face.

"Yes, it's really me and yes, I live. Please don't punch me, no matter how much you want to. How did I do it, fake my death? Well, a magician never reveals his secrets now does he, John? If I'm here, who's in the grave? A poor chap who no one would miss." Sherlock began answering each question as if he could read his mind. "Where have I been? All over the world. Why am I back? Because I'm bored with the world and London…is my home."

John clenched his fists. Leave it to Sherlock to have the most words in a conversation. "I'm…glad you're back then." He swung his left fist and punched his best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**O.N.E**

**Note:  
** _There is not much Molly in this chapter. I'm taking things slow, building things up but hopefully it's not dragging. If it is, please let me know! Also, this is my first time writing mystery/crime so I'm sorry if the case involved is of no interest? If something doesn't make sense, let me know. I'll be doing my best to keep things interesting. :) Thank you, all! _

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The two men stood idly in the chilly breeze. Sherlock rubbed his jaw where John had impenitently punched him. It was harder this round than the time he asked John to take swing at him before they met with The Woman.

"So who's the poor bloke that's under there?" John asked, pointing to the ground under the granite tombstone.

"A drug dealer who overdosed. Had no immediately family. Alone in this world," Sherlock answered indifferently, rubbing his gloves.

"His name?"

"Don't remember."

They were silent for another brief moment, neither of them knowing what to say. After a deep breath, John turned his head up. "I knew you were alive."

"Did you, now?"

"I did," John said firmly. Sherlock looked down at him. "I…I don't know why but I just couldn't believe you were actually dead and it wasn't just denial. I knew it, Sherlock."

"Do you want a cookie?" Sherlock asked. "For getting it right?"

John pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. "Oh, shut up." He looked back down at the engraved name on the tomb. "Tell me how you did it," he asked, bothered.

"I told you."

"No, I don't believe you did."

"I told you, magicians never reveal their secrets."

"So that was a magic act? The whole thing?"

Sherlock could still deduce some anger in John's voice and sighed, shutting his eyes. "Yes."

"Did you have to hide it from me?" he asked. "I'm your best friend."

"You're upset."

John turned around and faced him head on. "Of course I'm upset! You told me you were a fake, jumped off a building in front of my eyes, falsified your death and then ran around the world for two entire years while I sat around thinking you were dead -"

"But you didn't think I was dead," Sherlock interjected.

John held onto his anger by the leash. Inhaling, he continued speaking. "I was conflicted," he corrected. "And you show up…like nothing changed at all. As if you could just, what? Take a break, reverse time and go back to how things were before Moriarty died?"

"I completely understand that changes are inevitable in life, John. I didn't expect you to get married and move out of the loft but those are just details. Overall, nothing really has changed."

"Really? Nothing?" He glared at him like a teacher giving a warning to problematic child. "Alright. Okay."

Sherlock frowned. This wasn't the type of reunion he had imagined. "I apologise," he said finally. "I hurt you."

"Not just me," John corrected, shaking his head. "No. You hurt Ms. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft – you're entire family, your fans, and…everyone who cared about an arse like you."

"I killed myself to save you _all_," Sherlock clarified.

"Oh please, don't be morbid," John scoffed.

"Moriarty…he had a sniper on everyone's head." Sherlock finally faced John and looked into his eyes seriously. "If I didn't jump, if I didn't take my life, you would all be dead in my place. And none of you could fake your death like I could," he added starkly. "I took care of it and everyone lived – except Moriarty." He turned away and lifted his chin, looking at the willow tree.

"He had snipers on us?"

"Of course. You are aware from our swimming pool experience that he loves snipping his victims?" Sherlock sneered.

The realization dawned on John and the corners of his lips took a dive. "I didn't know." He pondered this for a minute and finally added, "Thank you."

Sherlock let out a groan. "I don't need your gratitude, John. What is it that people say? Oh yes, that's what friends are for," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Never had a friend who would fake his death for me…"

"Obviously." More silence. Sherlock suddenly remembered something. "Oh yes, have you been paying my rent?"

"What?"

"My loft has been secured for the past two years, John. Do you have anything to do with it?" Based on John's reaction, it wasn't him. "No. You haven't."

"I moved out, took my things and I thought Mycroft would get your belongings afterward."

Then it struck him. "Mycroft! Of course!" he growled, wrinkling his nose with contempt. Mycroft was the only one who was capable of paying for a hundred different lofts using pocket money. Sherlock's loft was no exception but why would Mycroft do that? He frowned, perplexed with the idea of his brother holding onto his loft for sentimental reasons. Mycroft should have been stuffing his cheeks with cake after his funeral. It didn't make sense.

John's eyes widened. "Does he know you're alive?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "Don't say anything. Not yet."

"How long do you think you can hide being alive?" John asked. "I'm quite surprised no one noticed you. You're not even in a disguise."

"What the public makes of my resurrection is none of my concern," Sherlock spat. They were the ones who were so fickle and turned on him like the little petty people they were.

"You sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John."

"Okay – right." He looked up and blinked once. "What are you going to do now?"

"Lestrade has a case. I'm going to contact him."

"Really? How do you know?" He frowned at himself. "Nevermind, stupid question."

Sherlock nodded, agreeing. He also felt like he had been talking too much and his jaw hurt. "Two murders, Sarah O'Conner and William Reed, (Molly had her documents facing his way and he was able to read off their names) both shot straight through the head, yet, Molly says the crime scenes were clean with little to no leads. This means either a ghost shot them or our killer is very skilled. Guess which one?"

"You talked to Molly?"

Sherlock groaned and turned around and began walking away.

"Skilled killer," John alleged quickly. "Sherlock! Where are you going?" he followed behind him.

"Home!"

"What? Why?" He still had a hundred different questions he wanted to ask.

"Goodbye, John!" Sherlock hurried off, leaving him behind. He was tired of spoon-feeding explanations to him like a child and needed time to himself.

"I'm going to call you!" John shouted. A few seconds later, his phone beeped and he looked at the message.

_From: (020) 3521 ****_

_Don't call. Text. _

_SH_

**###**

Sherlock had wanted to call Lestrade but was still contemplating what to say to him. He had told the world he was a fake detective and died. Would Lestrade still let him on the case, yet alone, believe him? Probably not. So for the next two days, Sherlock sat alone in his loft pondering his options.

Sherlock didn't eat, he didn't like cooking. Mrs. Hudson became worried so she made him some breakfast Tuesday morning which he ate heartily. Other than that, he wasted some time going through John's blog but all he found were pictures of his wedding and endless babbling about his new wife and a few depression sessions that lacked poetry. He also spent time playing Johann Pachelbel's D Minor on his violin when he thought about weddings. When his mind drifted to Molly and her boyfriend whose name he couldn't recall, he dropped his violin and began shooting his smiley face with a gun until Mrs. Hudson came storming back up and shouted at him to stop his ruckus. She thought John had taken the gun away but Sherlock remembered hiding it from him two years ago and apparently he had never found it. Good.

With a groan, Sherlock fell into his sofa and tucked his legs in. He was still wearing his pajamas and robe. It was midafternoon and hadn't even bothered to shower yet. He turned away from the back of the sofa and looked across the room at his friend skull.

"Should I just email Lestrade?" he asked. "He might be okay with me coming back to life. I doubt Donovan will be very pleased, she and Mycroft probably ate cake together and had a party but perhaps Lestrade won't be too objective."

The skull stared back at him through it's hallow eyes.

"You're not as interesting as John." Sherlock let out an aggravated moan and whipped himself up. Stepping over the table, he made way towards the newly bought laptop and booted it up. No more thinking, time to act. Sherlock began typing furiously, creating a new email account since his old one had probably been compromised by Mycroft.

_**To:** DI Greg Lestrade_

_**Subject:** Life or death situation_

_This is Sherlock. I want in on the headshot murder case._

_SH_

He hit the send key and stared at the screen, waiting for a response with a blank face. It came instantly.

_**To:** TheDeadManSH  
_

_**Subject:** Life or death situation_

_Who are you? How did you get this email? Do you know who I am? I can have this server checked up right now and arrest you for impersonation!_

Sherlock grinned. This was fun.

_**To:** DI Greg Lestrade_

_**Subject:** Life or death situation_

_Boring._

_Wednesday morning. My loft. _

_SH_

_P.S. Don't bring Donovan. And not a word to Mycroft. _

Another reply.

_**To:** TheDeadManSH  
_

_**Subject:** Life or death situation_

_Sherlock? Is that really you? _

Sherlock turned off the laptop. _He didn't seem too upset_.

Getting up again, he sunk back into the all familiar armchair lazily. He looked up at a spot on the ceiling. Everyone had seemed to have found their niche after he departed. John had married Mary and even texted him yesterday to meet his 'wonderful and lovely wife'. Boring. He tried to contact Molly to entice more information out of her, didn't work, she had shooed him away because she was busy with her boyfriend whose name continued to escape him. Enticing Molly card wasn't going to work anymore, he was going to have to find a new way to get her to do what he wanted.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted.

The old woman poked her head through the door in the next minute. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I have medicine for your hip. I discovered it in the jungles of South America, it's quite effective."

"Medicine?"

"Herbal. I think you might find it quite acceptable," he said, sitting up his chair. "Better than morphine if you ask me."

She blinked, holding her elbow and rubbing his chin. "It's not drugs, is it?"

A mischievous smile crawled onto his lips. "Not if you don't want it to be." He got up, walked to his bedroom, retrieved his suitcase and unzipped the lid looking for the medication. He ambled back into the room and handed it over into her palm. "I was also wondering; could you make me some tea?"

"Not your housekeeper," she repeated for the millionth time.

He frowned.

"But I'll make an exception," she added with a little old lady smile. Walking into the kitchen, she pulled out the kettle as Sherlock sat on the table, picking up the newspaper. "Sherlock, the kitchen is actually clean," she noted.

"Yes, Molly didn't have time to give me any body parts to keep me occupied," he muttered, perusing the articles.

"Well that's a shame. I'm sure she's busy with Charles. I have a good feeling about those two love doves."

That was his name, _Charles_. "You know him?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the paper. There was an article about the headshot case with no clear leads and on the next page they had a column about vandalisms. Boring.

"Briefly met him. Very nice fellow and he's quite the smart one. Kind of reminds me of you."

Sherlock snorted. He turned the page, read something about some missing amulet. Boring. Weather. Boring. Hottest man of the year. Boring. Boring. Boring. He groaned and threw the newspaper over his shoulder. It landed on the floor as Ms. Hudson set the tea on the table in front of him.

"Biscuits?"

"I just ran out, dear." She washed her hands and then turned to leave.

"You're not going to have tea with me?" Sherlock asked.

"I have to run to the shop," she said on her way out. "Sorry, Sherlock."

Blinking, he picked up his teacup. Alone yet again. It shouldn't have bothered him, this silence. He was used it but there was something about this flat, it seemed bigger. He looked up at the window above the sink, the light shined enough so he could see the dust particles dance and swim in the air. He sipped his brew quietly and then played his violin until the next morning when Lestrade came knocking on his door.

Finally, some action. Sherlock jumped off the armchair and hurried to the door, swinging it open, revealing a very shocked Lestrade.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock said enthusiastically. "You've come."

"Oh, Shit!" he said loudly. "You really are alive!"

"Of course, I am. Suicide is not my style," he clarified. He walked back into the room, allowing Lestrade to stroll in with that stupid expression like he had seen a pig fly.

"So…you faked your death?" Lestrade asked, swallowing the surprise down his throat.

"Yes."

"Oh, shit!" It was another voice and this one sent chills up Sherlock's spine. Anderson walked in from behind Lestrade with an equally shocked expression.

"Anderson?" Sherlock asked, disgusted. "Why is Anderson here?"

"You're alive," he said.

"You said not to bring Donovan," Lestrade replied pragmatically.

"So you bring Anderson as her replacement?"

"Honestly, I didn't exactly know what I was walking into, Sherlock. I thought I was going to find a dead body or someone was going to attack me. I wasn't going to come alone."

"Why are you still alive?" Anderson asked, pointing a finger and blinking.

"Go home, Anderson!" Sherlock shouted. "The irritation your face brings, I can't bare it right now. Get out!"

Lestrade turned and shoved the confused Anderson out of the door.

"He's alive," Anderson muttered.

"Yes, yes, I'll call you later. Go home, Anderson." Lestrade turned around with his hands on his hips. "Well…"

Sherlock straightened, inhaling. He had cleaned himself up today and was wearing his usual attire with a purple shirt and blazer. "Yes."

"What…how…did this all happen?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Not another long and tedious explanation. He refused. "Ask John, he'll give you the details of my revivification but right now, I want to speak to you about the headshot case." His fingers steepled under his chin.

"John knows you're alive?"

"Yes."

"Who else knows?"

"Mrs. Hudson, Molly and her boyfriend Charles, though I don't think he believed me."

"Charles knows you're alive?"

Sherlock arched a brow. He spoke his name as if they were very close. "Yes."

"Huh." Lestrade brought his eyebrows together in thought. He nodded and then licked his lip, looking at Sherlock sideways. "You want in on the case?"

"Yes."

"I've got good people on the case, Sherlock. I don't really need your help."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on, Lestrade. No new leads in two weeks, no suspects, no motives – face it, you have nothing and you need my help."

"I don't."

_Oh_. Sherlock blinked. This was the first time Lestrade ever told him no with so much promise and authority. "You don't need my help…because you think I'm a fake," Sherlock inferred, lowering his head probingly.

"God, no." Lestrade shook his head firmly. "I know a criminal when I smell one, a liar too and you Sherlock are not a fake. I know that much."

Sherlock stared at him oddly. However, there was still something stopping Lestrade from putting him on the case. What was it? He had said he had good people, maybe he really did think his people worthy. "Who exactly is on the case, Lestrade?"

Before he could answer, Lestrade's pants began to vibrate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, turning it on and putting it to his ear with a hand still resting on his hip. "Yes, this is Lestrade." He flashed his eyes at Sherlock. "Another one? Where? Shad Sanderson?"

Sherlock grinned winningly. Another person had been eradicated by the headshot murderer. This killer was on a roll, three victims in two weeks. Lestrade put his phone back into his trousers. "Murder," Sherlock gathered.

"Yeah…" He rubbed his forehead and then looked at Sherlock with a defeated sigh. "This is much bigger than my pride. If you be nice, I'll let back in on the case."

"The others won't be pleased you're working with me," he warned. "And I won't make any promises. I usually don't get along with _anyone_," he enunciated.

"Just get your coat."

**###**

_To: John Watson_

_Headshot case. New murder. Come immediately. _

_SH_

John shut the door to his taxi and rushed over to the crime scene. Sirens were roaring in the air, yellow tape had been strung around the perimeter and officers were walking around, taking notes, speaking to the press and asking questions to the employees.

From the other side of the street, another taxi pulled over and Sherlock stepped out, taking long quick strides over while wearing his trademark coat and scarf with Lestrade next to him.

"Good John, you're here," Sherlock said as they walked towards the large building.

"What's happened?" John asked.

Lestrade gave them the details. "Peter Fitzgerald, forty-one years old, worked as a financial consultant at Shad Sanderson. Like the other" –Lestrade pointed to the center of his forehead- "gunshot straight through the head."

Around them, the press began taking pictures of Sherlock in frenzy, shouting things like 'he's alive', 'zombie', 'dead man walking' and other things. John looked at his friend who wasn't paying them the slightest attention. "The paparazzi, Sherlock."

He looked up at the tiny crowd of perhaps less than a dozen members and shouted. "Shut up! I'm working! All your questions can be directed to this man right here!" He pushed John's back forward and fed him to the crowd.

"Sherlock!"

"Make yourself useful, John." Sherlock turned away, clicking away on his mobile.

"I'm not your press manager!" He looked at Lestrade who simply shrugged and followed after Sherlock. "Oh, right – great." John lifted his hands up, exasperated. "Um," he muttered, looking back at the crowd and scratching his eyebrow. "Questions yes, one at a time please…" He was already cleaning up his messes, wonderful and had already figured this was the sole reason he was called forward this morning. Not about the crime but to distract the crowd.

Lestrade and Sherlock strode through the mechanical glass doors and found Sebastian Wilkes pacing back and forth in the front lobby. He looked up, wide-eyed. "Sherlock?"

_Oh great. Again._ Sherlock was easily getting jaded with these unattractive surprised looks. He gave the big-jawed man a brief condescending smile. "Sebastian, another murder in your department? You're doing a poor job in background checking your potential employees."

"Rumors are true then," he muttered.

Sherlock squinted. Rumors?

"Oh, Shit!"

They turned their head to see none other than a Sally Donovan. She had her mouth agape, her eyes staring crazily at Sherlock. After a second, her irises rolled back and her body fell onto the floor, fainting.

"Hm, didn't think see that coming," Sherlock muttered.

"Can somebody help her?" Lestrade shouted to his men and then turned to Sebastian. "Where's the body?"

"My floor." He kept looking at Sherlock. "Come on, I'll take you."

Sebastian led them up into the office room where Fitzgerald was murdered. He was sitting in his swivel chair, his body limp with the gunshot wound round and perfect in the middle of his forehead. Blood had bled down the man's eyes and there was a small pool of it under his chair.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

_Oh great, another one_. Sherlock turned around to find Charles with his hands in his trousers staring at him oddly with a tilted head. Sherlock mimicked his strange stare. Why was Charles here? Shouldn't he be playing with Molly and her cat?

Charles let out a laugh and grinned. "I looked you up on the net after we met. You weren't lying." He stuck out his hand. "I'd heard of you but never actually bothered to see a picture. I was a fan. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"We shook hands already," Sherlock noted. "I don't like repetition."

He chuckled. "Right. Well, it's nice to have you on the case then. Let's work well together."

"Work? Together?" Sherlock twisted himself around and glared at Lestrade who gave an innocent look. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, demanding an explanation. Were idiots who dated Molly Lestrade's idea of 'good people' for the case?

"It's a long story."

"Make it short."

"I met Sebastian at your funeral, we talked, said he knew someone like you, we got in contact and next thing I know, I'm consulting him for a few cases every now and then."

Sherlock turned to Sebastian.

"I had just recently met him through a lawyer friend," he added.

Sherlock turned to Charles again. He opened his lips and said, "So you're like me."

"Or you're like me," he countered, raising his eyebrows with a cheerful smile.

"Impossible."

"Possible."

"I was here first," Sherlock argued.

"Second is the best."

This was getting dull. Comparing Charles to his level of intellect was an elementary thing to do. How could this clean little childish _boy_ ever compare to him, or Moriarty? But Sherlock could sense a contest and the corners of his lips perked up slightly. This would be an easy win. "Alright." He turned to the dead body and scanned him.

"Blood hasn't dried, recent attack means our headshot killer has no fear and isn't afraid of being caught and obviously very highly skilled based on the trajectory of his shot that goes through the man's skull at a precise center. CCTV's were probably off seeing as though you can't get any leads on this case. Killer came in the morning, turned them off or tampered with them, hid until Fitzgerald came, shot him and left early. Probably used a disguise; not hard to hide a gun in a business suit."

"And nobody heard him?" Lestrade asked dubiously.

"Silencer," Sherlock and Charles said the same time. They stared at one another.

"Please, continue," Charles proffered, extending his hand with a genuine smile.

Sherlock turned back to the dead man. "Silencer," he repeated. "The gun was equipped with a silent barrel which no one would hear unless they were in earshot and because Fitzgerald was an early bird worker, no one was around to hear him get his brains blasted." He pointed to the dark circles under his eyes and the tall coffee his desk that was half empty. "Fitzgerald was obviously stressing out about something, couldn't sleep and had been surviving off caffeine." He scanned his desk. "Oh, and he was happily married, no kids seeing as though there's only a picture of his wife here, obviously no family domestics."

John jogged into the room and let out a deep breath. "What did I miss?" He looked over his right shoulder at Charles. "Hello Charles."

"John," he nodded.

Sherlock lifted his chin, watching the two stand next to each other like good friends. Clearly they were well acquainted. Sebastian then leaned over and whispered the details to John who bobbed his head solemnly.

Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade. "Your killer, Lestrade, is probably someone with military experience, does their homework, and knows their way around technology. Probably conceited" – he flashed Charles a look – "likes to show off their work for the world to see-"

"Or to make a statement," Charles interjected, untangling his hands from his chest.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Think about it Sherlock," he said his name with a morsel of contempt. He unhinged himself from the wall and walked over to the body. "Our headshot killer isn't someone who wants to show off, he's making a statement. Three bodies in the span of four days, our first pattern, we have four days' time until the next victim shows up. As for the worry, what do you think Fitzgerald was worrying about? His taxes? I doubt that. I presume he knew he was going to be a target, probably didn't know when, seeing as he didn't barricade himself in his home but he was sleepless enough to know someone was coming for him. He was frightened, poor lad. The victims aren't random, they're connected. How?" He lifted his finger. "Not exactly sure yet but our headshot killer knew this man. He knew him well enough to know he's always the first to come to work no matter what, probably wanted that promotion, salary bonus, or maybe it's habitual."

"How do you know he's always early?" John asked.

"I talked to an employee on my way up." Charles grinned. "Whatever the case, the killer is sending a warning to the others – whoever they are that he's coming for them if he doesn't get what he wants."

Sherlock lifted his chin, watching as Lestrade nodded and looked at Charles with awe. John smiled at him and Sebastian was grinning.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He wasn't sure what else to add. Charles was…good. He was able to pick that up and come to such a conclusion. It was odd though; there was something peculiar about him. He didn't look like the type of man who could come across (in Sherlock's mind) as anything above the average intelligence for 'high class, educated' citizens. Suddenly, he was very interested in Molly's boyfriend. Surely she hadn't picked up a genius…he had to be hiding something. Maybe he was fake.

Charles put his hands into his pockets and looked at Sherlock eye to eye. There was pompous smirk hidden behind his green iris, as if he was telling him he had just won this round, victory was his.

_Ah. A challenge_. Sherlock smiled at Charles, in a way that showed he was pleased, fascinated, and yet wanted to rip that horribly charming smile off his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**O.N.E**

**Note:** _Hello all! Firstly, I very much appreciate the support and alerts, follows, and comments. You make me happy and just want to let you know, they're all very much loved! Also, I'm sorry for Charles being such a git. I've come to realize that if you mess with Sherlock's 'thunder' you get the wrath of the fans as well. :) Additionally, this is a more 'Molly/Sherlock' centered chappy and I had a hard time writing this for some reason. Hopefully it sounds okay. Thank you again! **  
**_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Molly was sitting in the lab, scribbling down ink on the paperwork she was supposed to have gotten done yesterday. She had been so busy keeping Charles entertained that she had forgotten to complete it. Instead, Charles and her had snuggled up and watched romantic films on telly until three a.m.

She yawned openly, tears forming at the corner of her eyes. She wiped them away and blinked rapidly. Today, she would have to get them done today. Forcing her attention back to the work, she scrawled in the details of her last autopsy.

The doors swung open and Sherlock walked in. "Oh, Sherlock!" She looked up and smiled at him using all the muscles in her cheeks. However, he didn't look very pleased; more irritated - like when he needed something to do but couldn't find anything to keep him preoccupied.

He stood next to her with a sullen look. "Molly, where did you find Charles?"

"Where?" She blinked, surprised by his question. "Why are you interested in Charles?"

"Answer the question, Molly."

She rubbed her hands nervously. "I…erm, found him through a mutual friend?"

"Who?"

She scratched her ear. "Lestrade, actually." He made a face. "Charles was working a case for him a few months ago and we sort of made acquaintance when he came to look over a cadaver. He asked me out to coffee and well, we started seeing each other." She grinned happily.

"So you weren't the first person to meet him." He paused. "What does your _boyfriend_ do exactly?"

"He's a-a lawyer."

"What kind?"

"Family?" She questioned. "I'm not exactly sure."

"How long have you two been dating?"

She looked up, counting mentally. "Around five months now."

"And you're unaware of your boyfriend's occupation?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"Well, h-he's not exactly obligated to tell me about his cases, I think it's illegal, Sherlock. I just don't ask him; that's how we get along. He does what he needs to do for work - I do what I need to do."

God, Molly was the perfect girlfriend for any serial killer, Sherlock thought.

"We have awkward hours but w-we make due." She pressed her lips together. "Did something happen between you and Charles?"

He stared at her for a second longer than necessary. "No," he said quickly.

"He can be a bit distant sometimes," she muttered, looking back at her paperwork. She was sure something had happened to Sherlock and Charles otherwise he wouldn't be here interrogating her. "He's a good man."

"I've heard," Sherlock murmured. "He's integrated himself in my web quite well. He knows _every_one."

"Is there a problem?" Molly asked, unsure of what Sherlock wanted. "Do you need me to do something for you?"

"Oh, if you're not too busy," he sneered wryly.

Molly knew what this was about. Sherlock had asked her for information and body parts a few days back. She was busy, on a date. She wasn't going to run back to St. Bart's just to saw off a few hands for him when she was having Italian with her boyfriend.

"I was on a dinner date, Sherlock," Molly said, trying to make him understand but Sherlock didn't understand relationships, so her efforts were fruitless. "What do you need?" she asked again.

"Oh, a head would be nice."

"Okay…"

Molly led Sherlock down to the morgue, pulled on her gloves and began working on a man's head. Sherlock paced around the large room with his hands deep in his pockets, still impatient and muttering things to himself.

Suddenly, he turned on his heels. "Why do you like Charles?" he asked.

Molly's lips parted. He was asking her why she liked Charles? "Erm, he's very nice."

"Yes, so is John but you don't like him."

"I like John," Molly countered.

"Yes, not in the same passion you like Charles. Tell, what makes him so special?" Sherlock stopped pacing and watched her from the opposite side of the room, his blue eyes piercing through the dimly lit morgue like shining crystals.

Molly looked down as she placed the severed head into an iced cooler and blinked rapidly. "He's smart, different. He cares about me, and respects my opinions. Charles makes me feel…good about myself." She swallowed. It was awkward telling Sherlock of her feelings, yet he still held power over her and if he asked, she would answer. However, Molly felt like she had revealed her heart to him, and he was going to do something to it…

"Do you always need a second party to have pride in yourself?" he asked.

And there, like she expected, he stabbed her with an iced blade. Her lips quivered as she looked up at him with a mixture of hurt and shock. "E-excuse me?"

He tilted his head and took a few good steps closer to her, his finely sculpted face lighting up over the steel table. "Why do you always need someone?" he asked, generally interested. "Like corn in America, completely human-dependent, and can't survive on its own in the wild. Humans are capable of adapting and yet, you chose not to, you chose to live in commensalism."

"You always do this," she whispered, shaking her head, her words getting clogged in her throat. "Cruel. Every time, you just – just never happy for me. I helped you with your elaborate magic trick, Sherlock, against everything and I'm happy with Charles so please, I beg you, don't ruin it."

She looked at him as if she were pleading for mercy, her brown eyes glossy and red. Her lips thin and pushed together in a vain effort to keep from crying or getting really angry. He wasn't sure which one. Maybe both.

Sherlock blinked. He did it again, hurt her. If he had a pound for every time he made Molly frown, he could buy this country from under Mycroft's nose. He looked away, trying to concentrate on the lights and then turned around to flee but forgot to take the head so he turned again and forced himself to look at her. "I'm sorry, Molly," he breathed, taking the cooler away from her hands. "I was…just…. Forgive me." Without wasting another second, he exited the morgue, leaving only the sound of a shutting door as her companion.

**###**

It was still early, only sixteen hours into the day, the night was still pale, and Sherlock's mind continued to replay this afternoon's events. Charles showing off his polished skills of deduction for all to see and winning the first round of their little contest, and then there was Molly, begging him to stay off Charles' back. Was everyone in love with the blonde-haired bar of soap?

Sherlock took a few steps back and then raised his gun towards the severed head on the coffee table. He pulled the trigger and the gunshot echoed around him, the bullet slicing through the severed head's center and digging into the sofa. John would be furious if he saw him now. Good thing Mrs. Hudson wasn't in, as well. He was being naughty.

Sherlock wasn't nearly as good of a shot as the killer but it was close enough. The distance between was accurate and after eradicating the most inconvenient possible locations, he confirmed that the killer was probably standing near the front door of the office when he shot Fitzgerald in the head, which meant the killer was likely hiding behind the door when he came in, trapping Fitzgerald in the office. Based on Charles' deductions, _arse,_ of the killer requiring something, he probably had questioned Fitzgerald and when he didn't receive a proper answer, shot him and walked out.

"Only a few questions remain," Sherlock said to his skull. "What did the killer want? And how are these victims connected?" He glared at his friend. "I need to find the answers before Charles does," he added quietly.

He set the gun down and dropped into his armchair, making a steeple with his fingers under his chin. Charles and his stupid face popped into his head, again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes instantly. He remembered how clean and posh he was. He was definitely hiding something. His eyes flickered to the wall clock. Still time. Sherlock stood up and grabbed his coat, swinging it over his shoulders. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and then left 221b Baker Street through the back door.

"Taxi!" he called, outside. This afternoon he had scanned Molly: date night. Neither Charles nor Molly would be at his loft and this gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to do some sleuthing before they came home.

**###**

Charles didn't have a locked door; he had a keycode entry. Sherlock stared at the numbers and then punched in Molly's birthday. It worked, the door clicked open. _Really Charles?_ _ I would expect more from you._

He rolled his eyes and entered the expensive lot. He flicked the lights on and walked down the white hall, through the glittery clean kitchen and into the living area. There was a small sofa, a couple armchairs, a coffee table. The window was closed with the long blue curtains still pushed to the side and he could see London's busy street down below. There were a few magazines on the table, two womanly covers that were most likely Molly's and a couple historical publications and one National Geographic which he supposed were Charles's preferred reading material. On the mantle, there were pictures of Charles and Molly together. One taken at a birthday party, Charles' birthday – he was the one wearing the hat with cake on his face. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and had an urge to do something inconvenient with the picture. He decided against it.

He continued his sleuthing. Two toothbrushes in the bathroom, Molly had been staying nights. Hm. Charles didn't have much. His loft was mostly empty besides regular human necessities and other things that didn't help Sherlock come to any relevant conclusions. He was clean, much too clean. It bothered him. Everyone was dirty, there was always a spot they missed and Sherlock wanted, _needed_, to find out where Charles left his dirt.

Before he could do anything else, the door clicked open. They were back? Quickly, he turned off the lights and hid behind the curtains, still as a statue.

Molly flicked on the lights to the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. She peeled off her clothes and opened the drawer to change. She kept extra clothing in Charles's flat when she stayed nights. Drawer was empty. She had forgotten to do the laundry again. Pulling out one of Charles's shirts from the closet, she buttoned it up and dug out her mobile from her purse. There was a chocolate bar in the candy drawer, Charles had a sweet tooth. She unwrapped the candy and then went into the living room and sat the armchair, dialing her boyfriend's number.

"Hello?"

"Charles," Molly said; her cheeks full. "Um, when do you expect to be back?"

"Soon, no worries. Sorry about cancelling the date," he apologized. "Something came up at the office and I couldn't drive away my client."

She giggled. "It's alright. I'll be in bed then."

"Alright. Be there soon. Don't start anything without me."

She gasped, her cheeks flushing. "I would n-never start _anything_ without you. Oh my, god! Charles!" She flustered and then said her goodbye, hanging up.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the mirror in where he was watching Molly's reflection. They didn't have a date, something happened – convenient on the day of the murder, not? More suspicion points for Charles. She stretched her bare legs out in front of her and then slugged deeper into the couch, turning on the telly. Seriously? He groaned mentally.

He couldn't help but think she was making herself comfortable in a suspicious man's home. For all she knew, he could be the headshot murderer – Molly could be in danger and yet here she was, stretching out her legs in nothing but a, his, shirt and eating chocolates. Oh, the world must be so good in her mind. Hateful. Completely hateful. _Move, Molly!_

Sherlock needed to escape and in the back of his head, he wanted Molly far away from Charles too. It was miracle in itself that he hadn't done anything to her yet. He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, switched it to silent and texted.

Molly's mobile buzzed and she looked at the screen, chewing on the delicious chocolate. It was from Sherlock. She rolled her head back. "Now what do you want?" she said out loud.

_From: Sherlock Holmes  
_

_Are you alright?  
_

_SH  
_

Why was he asking if she was alright? Was this about their argument? She couldn't really stay mad at him, not after he just asked if she was alright. God, she was too easy in forgiving.

_To: Sherlock Holmes_

_Yes. Why? _

Instant reply.

_From: Sherlock Holmes_

_Passed your building. It's on fire. _

_SH_

"WHAT?" Molly jumped up, horrified. "Oh my, god! Toby!" Without wasting a second, she rushed back into the room, grabbed her coat and left the flat without even bothering to put on her slacks.

Sherlock stepped out from the confinement of the curtains. Put the cat in danger and Molly would jump through fire. Codependency.

**###**

Molly bit her lip, sleeping in her own bed, in her loft, with Toby snuggled next to her feet. Sherlock lied. There was no fire, no building in London was on fire and yet, he sent her that text, forced her to take a cab all the way there only to find her faucet dripping water. Nonetheless, he made her worry sick over nothing, then it was late and she didn't feel like going back to Charles either so she retired and slept in her own bed.

Why did he do that? Was he drunk? Did he imagine a fire? She frowned, she knew he had his reasons; she just wasn't sure what they were. She sighed, rolling onto her side and raising her duvet to her chin.

Sherlock. He was really back, already being a pain in the arse, but he was back. She blinked, her chest suddenly burning as she thought of him alone, walking as a dead man, struggling to stay hidden yet be noticed – to live in a purgatory he created himself. It seemed like a difficult, exhausting task and she wondered how the past couple years had treated him – really, treated him.

**###**

Sherlock lay on his back in the middle of his flat. His eyes secured at the ceiling but unlike the blank ceiling, his brain was racing faster than a computer processor. On his mind, he thought of the case, John, Molly, and most of all, Charles.

Oh god, that arse.

Charles, Charles, Charles! At this rate he might fall in love with him, too. No one had ever occupied his mind like this posh mysterious gentleman – except Moriarty, but he was more insane. Perhaps in another time they might have been born as triplets. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He wasn't sure which one was which though. Maybe they were all three combined.

Lestrade had gone to speak with Fitzgerald's wife to get information and didn't take Sherlock along – he took Charles. Which was a good call, actually. Sherlock didn't like talking to the family members whose loved one had recently been murdered. There was always a tedious amount of foreplay needed in order to receive information that was useful and that was always dreadful.

His mobile vibrated. This was usually the moment where he'd call John for help but John wasn't here. Ms. Hudson had gone out too. He turned his head to the side sluggishly. The mobile was three feet away on the coffee table but Sherlock didn't feel like moving so he let it vibrate. After the third attempt, the caller gave up and there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock let out a groan and sat up. He opened the door and was surprised to see a little Molly standing on the other side in a trench coat that was similar to the ones Charles wore. Couple's clothing? Hah, rudimentary!

"Molly," he said, leaving the door open for her. He fell into his armchair gracefully and put his hands together under his chin, watching her.

She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "There are reporters swarming your front door," she said.

"Clearly when one rises from their grave, the media goes into curious frenzy. I've been taking the back door to avoid their repetitive questions. Don't worry they'll get bored sooner or later." He waved his hand in the air dismissively. "I'm just a passing phase, like those pretty boy bands."

"You know pretty boy bands?" Molly asked, quite surprised.

"Everyone knows about the pretty boy bands."

She stood in the center, swallowed, looking around his loft and then frowned. There was still a twinge of anger sloppily masked behind her eyes.

"M-My flat."

"This is my flat."

"I mean _my flat."_

"What of it?"

"It's not on fire – wasn't on fire. No building in London was on fire yesterday, Sherlock. Why did you send me that text?" she asked.

"Oh. That." Sherlock let out a short breath. "My mistake."

"You mistook seeing a fire?" Molly seemed, no, was unpleased.

"I am allowed to do that, yes?" If Molly was here, he didn't want to waste his time talking about a fake fire he made up to get out of a flat he wasn't supposed to have been in. "Where's Charles?" He already knew the answer but wanted to see how much Molly was told.

"He's working."

"Tell you where?"

"He's with Lestrade. I heard you were put on the case together this morning," Molly said. So she knew about all of that. Okay. Wasn't really much to hide but Charles could've easily been a pathological liar, mentally abusing Molly. Actually he was. Sherlock had no doubt that everything that came out of Charles's mouth was a lie.

"You must be upset working with him…I do hope you get along."

Sherlock flashed an irritated look. "Get along?" he repeated questionably. "Why would I want to get along with him?"

Her eyes widened. "What…why wouldn't you?"

"He's annoying."

"He's not."

"I don't believe he's who he says he is," Sherlock said. "He's a liar."

"Oh really?" she asked, laughing. Sarcasm, she was capable of it. Interesting. "How do you know?" she challenged, crossing her arms against her chest.

"No evidence yet. Only intuition."

"Your intuition can be wrong sometimes."

"Usually, it isn't."

"I told you yesterday, Sherlock. Please stay out of it."

"I am."

She shook her head, disbelievingly. "No, you're not." She was being rather courageous. Again, it was probably the upgrades Charles had been giving her. Can't say he didn't like it. This was the first time Sherlock was actually having an argument with her that wasn't one sided. Also, it was fun having a go at someone. He'd been bored all morning.

He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I agreed not to pick at your relationship with him, and I am abiding. But I never said I would stay out of Charles's hair, not when it smells so fishy."

She closed her eyes. "You're just being jealous," she replied and as soon as the words left her lips, she clasped her mouth shut, wishing they never came out.

Sherlock lifted his head, glaring at her. "Me? What reason do I have to be jealous over someone as trivial as Charles Howard?"

Molly bit her lip, not saying a word.

"Enlighten me," he commanded.

"I'm going home," she said instead. She turned around to leave but Sherlock wouldn't have it.

He stood up, his eyes burning the back of her head. "It won't last."

At this, she turned around. "Excuse me?"

"Your relationship with him. It won't last. Charles…is like me," he said, summing it up as if that were all she needed to understand.

A few long seconds passed. "No," she contradicted him softly. And for a moment, there was pity in her eyes and his stomach burned at the sight of it. "He's nothing like you." Then she faced him with those sad inquisitive eyes of hers as if he was a puzzle she could never decipher. "And I _am_ a dependent animal," she said. "Yesterday, you were right." She played with her fingers and held her chin up as if it were something to be proud of.

His expression didn't change, he simply observed her.

"But so are you, we all are. Humans, we are social beings, all dependent on one another, Sherlock. And we all want someone to be there for us. No matter how weird we are." He wasn't sure if she was talking about him or herself. Perhaps both?

"You might think you're fine, Sherlock, but you're not." Her eyes grazed his messy flat and then she frowned, expelling a soft sigh before she said anything more. "If you need anything, I'll still be here for you – whether you still count me or not." And then she left.

He clenched his jaw. What did she know? Nothing. She was too busy playing house with Charles to really understand what was going on around her. Something wasn't right. Oh, he would love to rub it in her face once he exposed Charles for…well, whatever he was. Then they would break up and things could finally go back to normal.

His phone hummed again and he picked up his mobile and read the five text messages.

_From: Molly Hooper_

_I've something to talk to you about. Coming over._

_#  
_

_From: Lestrade _

_Meet us at the shop._

_#  
_

_From: Lestrade_

_Sherlock, we have new information._

_#  
_

_From: John Watson_

_Mary thinks we should have dinner together to celebrate your 'revival'. Text me back._

_#  
_

_From: Lestrade_

_Sorry, Sherlock. Is this is an inconvenient time for you? _

_I thought you said you wanted in on the case, remember? _

He texted John first.

_To: John Watson_

_Don't like celebratory zombie dinners. _

_Come to the cop shop. New information has arisen. _

_SH_

Then he texted Lestrade.

_To: Lestrade_

_Shut up. I'm coming._

_SH_

**###**

Everyone at the station was eyeing at Sherlock when he strolled into the building. He was never really wanted to begin with so the extra scowls didn't bother him, not that they could to begin with. He was rather immune to second opinions and idiots, and that was mostly everybody.

"So you're back, Freak." Donovan cut her way in, blocking his passage to the office where Lestrade and Charles were debating something probably important.

"Oh please, Donovan, if you think I live to ruin your life, you're heavily misguided," Sherlock replied rather theatrically.

She licked her lips, her stance of authority coming out as she planted her hands on her hips. "I don't care about the fans, Sherlock. I don't care if people believe in you – not one bit. Because I know the real you. You're screwed up, lost, you even faked your death and no one knows how you did it but you did. And guess what, you might've not broken any rules but that magic act, I'm 'gonna figure it out." Oh, she seemed so sure, he thought dryly. "And if I find out anything illegal been taken place – I'm going to put you in jail myself," she nodded her head.

"Right. You do that."

"And your accomplices."

"Don't know what you mean, Sally. Don't have any. Now move." He pushed his way past her and went into Lestrade's office. Charles was sitting down in a chair, his legs crossed and that irritating smile pushed its way up on his lips when their eyes met. Sherlock forced a condescending smile at him and it was war.

John was quick to follow behind, emerging through the doors and jogging into the office.

"Hello John," Charles greeted. "How's your wife?"

John smiled. "Good, good. Thank you. Molly?"

Sherlock wanted to hit someone. Preferably Charles but Lestrade was quite closer.

"Busy," he replied. "All the murders, means more work at St. Bart's."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "The information? That's what you texted me for, wasn't it? Not to have a tea party." He glared at John and Charles, who in turn smiled at him ruefully.

"Never a hello," Lestrade muttered. His eyes turned to Charles. "Do tell."

Charles stood up and buttoned up his suit. His posture was similar to a male model ready to take a photo shoot. He looked like he had just come from a funeral, dressed in all black, save his light blue shirt. He gave Sherlock a knowing look. "As you recall, Lestrade and I went to speak with Mrs. Fitzgerald. However, before that, I went to check some information regarding Mr. Fitzgerald's punctuality and found out he took a vacation not too long ago, last month. Three days, to be exact. Upon talking to his wife, we discovered that he and a few of his friends were traveling abroad to America. Nothing happened. They all came back in one piece."

"And that's important, why?" John asked.

"His friends were Sarah O'Conner, the first murder victim, a history professor, and his second friend was none other than our second victim, William Reed."

"Something did happen," Sherlock interjected. "Abroad. This sounds similar to our Blind Banker case," Sherlock muttered. "Sebastian must love hiring smugglers."

"You think he might be part of this?" Lestrade asked, raising a brow.

"God no," Sherlock replied. "The only thing Sebastian is guilty of is that terrible haircut."

"You think they might've taken something that didn't belong to them?" John asked. "But what would they take from America?"

"Hair pin?" Sherlock shrugged. "Come on, John. It could be anything from a piece of paper to a baby." Sherlock thought for another millisecond. "Or they could've easily pissed someone off."

Charles scratched the side of his head. "Um, there's one more friend. A girl, Jane Wilmot. If the headshot killer is targeting those who went abroad, she's probably on his hit-list."

"I've got people watching her, keep her safe until we figure out how to catch this guy," Lestrade added.

The intermission between the murders were four days, today was already the half point mark which gave them forty-eight hours before the murderer come to leave his mark in Jane's head. "Obviously, she has something," Sherlock said. "Interrogate her."

"I already talked to her," Lestrade answered. "She doesn't know why people are trying to hurt her friends or her. She told me about her trip already, it was some charity event for homeless children in New York and honestly, she's freaked out she's next on the hit-list."

"Doesn't matter. Scare her more, she'll tell you everything if you push the right buttons."

"Sherlock." It was John who looked at him in disbelief.

"What?"

"She thinks she's going to get murdered and our headshot killer isn't exactly afraid of the light – since he killed Fitzgerald in the early morning. In an office building. And didn't get caught. She's scared, really scared."

"Oh, who cares! Would she rather die being too scared to confess or die trying to save herself by remembering how she make this person upset in the first place! Our killer is skilled. He wouldn't waste his time shooting little hippies unless he had a good reason to."

Everyone stared at him. "Something biting your arse?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. You."

"Me?" He pointed to himself.

Ignoring them, Sherlock turned around and left the office only to catch Charles's eyes gleaming at him through the glass reflection. John followed behind him.

Sherlock was upset – mostly because Charles had been the one to get new information – again, while all Sherlock had deduced was that the killer shot his victim by the door. Stupid, why was that even relevant? He was so busy thinking about Charles and one-upping him that he wasn't even paying attention to the main details of the case.

This wasn't acceptable, he needed to separate his time, separate his cases. One was figuring out Charles and the other, the headshot killer. There was a lot to juggle, not enough time.

He would need John's help.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Note:  
**_Thank you all, again! Your comments are wonderful and I enjoy reading over them to see what's going on your heads. I'm sorry about Charles, really, he's such an arse but hopefully this chapter might mend that bit or make it worse. Depends... :)  
_

* * *

Kisses trailed down her neck. Skin burning in response. Hands, grasping her waist. Molly swallowed, closing her eyes and trying, so very hard, trying to dive into the sensation of Charles. But the second she closed her eyes, all she saw was a messy flat. Dishes undone, dust everywhere, papers on the floor and in the center, on a leather armchair, a single man - a lost, lonely mad man who watched her with his brilliant blue eyes.

"Charles," she protested when he tried to unbutton her trousers.

"Yes?" he looked up at her, his eyes dilated and his breathing heavy. "What's wrong, Molly?" he whispered, his lips parted.

She felt bad. She just wasn't in the mood, not with Sherlock occupying her mind. Tentatively, she brushed her fingers through his hair. "Um, can we just cuddle today or something?" she asked with a sweet smile.

Charles didn't seem to like this idea but he nodded like the good man he was. "Okay – no worries." He rolled off her and stuck out his arm for Molly to use as a pillow. "Is something the matter?"

She curled up against him, her head tucked under his chin. "Um…I met Sherlock this morning."

"Did you? What did he say?" He played with her hair.

"Nothing good."

"He's not one for the good talk, is he?" Charles grunted, rubbing her back with his palm. "What did you talk about?"

"I don't know. He texted me, told me my building was on fire last night when nothing happened. Then he said my relationship with you wouldn't last." She frowned, wondering what would make him say something like that. Unless… "Charles, did you break in bad with him?" she asked curiously.

He gave a resigned sigh into her scalp. "He's not exactly someone one can get to know easily. Or feel comfortable with. I don't think he likes me very much, I mean, I did sort of take his job."

Molly nodded.

"I'll be honest, Molly. I don't exactly like him either."

Oh, this was a surprise. Molly pulled back and looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"You told me you had a crush on him for years and I was fine with it because well, he was dead." He shrugged. "But now he's back and I…I don't know. Maybe I'm jealous of the friendship you have."

"Yes, friendship," Molly muttered. "He's still mean to me." She snuggled back into his chest and closed her eyes.

"Little boys," said Charles. "Are nasty to the girls they like."

"Sherlock is not a little boy," she yawned.

"I think he is," he said, smiling. He patted her back when she giggled at his remark. "Alright. Go to bed and remember to let your boss know you're getting off early tomorrow."

Molly nodded and lulled herself to sleep. She dreamt of the lonely brilliant madman whom no one would take care of…who wouldn't allow anyone to.

**###**

John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street later after their meeting with Lestrade. The night was nearly ebony and Mrs. Hudson opened the back door for them when they knocked. Sherlock had forgotten his keys.

"Boys! Come in quickly, the reporters are getting antsy." She shut the door behind them and locked it as if it were a safe. "When do you reckon they'll leave?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock began stripping off his scarf.

"Soon, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

She rubbed her lips and nodded. "Oh, and by the way, there's someone upstairs waiting to see you." She pointed.

John and Sherlock looked at one another. "Who?"

"Your brother."

And there, in the living room of their flat, Sherlock's archenemy, Mycroft, sat facing the door with his sluggish face and his walking cane across his lap.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, throwing his coat onto the sofa.

John was looking around the flat with his mouth agape, registering the mess.

"I should be asking you the same thing," Mycroft replied. Sherlock could construe his brother was trying very hard to keep his voice leveled. Clearly he was upset.

"Hm." Sherlock sat down on the opposite armchair and they glared at one another in the world's most intense staring contest. "This loft is under my name now, Mycroft. You can't come and go as you please."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he studied his younger brother. "Why did you not, at the very least, tell me you were alive?"

"What good would it have done?" Sherlock asked with a deep sigh. He leaned back in his seat and put his hands under his chin.

"I could've helped you."

"I didn't need help."

John made busy in the kitchen and let the brothers have their talk. He tried to look for something to eat but the fridge was empty besides a severed head with a few bullet holes in the center of its forehead and documents on the second shelf. He smiled. Remembering the old days where he'd find the craziest things in the fridge. He took the documents out and set them on the table. He might as well clean a bit. This place was a mess and he needed to keep busy and pretend like he wasn't listening to their conversation.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Your swan dive off St. Bartholomew's rooftop couldn't have been done alone," he gathered. "Who was it that aided you? John?"

Sherlock smirked. "No. Do you think John would ever allow me to do something that risky?" He rolled his eyes. "For a solider, he's not much of an extreme daredevil."

"Then who was it?" Mycroft asked, irritated.

"No one." Sherlock met the intensity of his glare.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Mycroft hissed, his anger getting the better of him.

"I'm fully aware," replied Sherlock evenly.

"Then you know what you put mummy through?" Mycroft asked darkly. "She fell so ill, Sherlock, so very ill we all thought she was going to die."

Mycroft was being rather dramatic. "Oh please, even if she did fall ill, she's a survivor and not even a family massacre could kill her ambitious spirit."

"Don't you think yourself a little cruel?" There was a hint of disgust in his voice but all things Mycroft, he ignored it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "Um, no." He opened his eyes and gave a brief childish smile.

Mycroft made that ugly face again. "We were all-"

"What? So very sad?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. "Please. Spare me your deliriums. I was obviously a disappointment from the second I took an interest in detective work and refused to go into politics and start wars. If anyone missed me, it was mummy. That's all." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and kept his attention on the table, eyeing a ballpoint pen.

"You, Sherlock, have no idea…at all," Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock didn't have a clue what Mycroft was going on about and frankly, he didn't care. Family morals were the last thing on his mind when he jumped off Bart's rooftop. "Sorry, can't hear you over the sound of me saving everyone from James Moriarty," Sherlock sneered.

"Oh, bother." Mycroft rolled his eyes in a similar fashion to Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked. "You still watch children's cartoons, Mycroft?"

"It took two years for you to decide to come back and tell us you weren't dead?" he asked, ignoring his previous statement.

Sherlock scoffed. "I had to make sure all loose ends were tied. Moriarty had wide wings. I assure you it wasn't easy tracking down his most loyal friends and imprisoning them while pretending to be a ghost."

Mycroft's expression dripped with empathy. He wasn't impressed nor did Sherlock really care. Impressing his elder brother – that was something he gave up eons ago.

"Tell me, _brother,_ why you kept my flat?" asked Sherlock, picking up the pen and changing the subject.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mycroft turned his head stubbornly.

"Shut up, I know it was you."

Mycroft turned his eyes and looked at him askew. "Mummy told me to do it," he admitted.

Ah. It made sense now. Mummy had always been the sentimental one in the family. She had newspaper clippings from before they were born stored in the attic of her endless archives.

"Who helped you Sherlock?" Mycroft pressed. "Was there more than one accomplice?"

He pressed his lips together. He was not going to give out Molly's name, not when Mycroft could twist her little bones into doing whatever he wanted like he had done with Lestrade. "Why are you so interested?" He lifted the pen and examined it in front of Mycroft, blurring out his face and sharpening the pen's image.

"Because this person clearly is someone you trust more than your own flesh and blood."

"I trust old ladies on the street more than I trust my own flesh and blood," Sherlock corrected. "Are you going to try to bribe them into giving you information about me like you do to everyone I know?"

Mycroft, understanding that this conversation wasn't going to go anywhere, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket while passing a vexed look at his brother. "Mummy is still too ill to come down here and see you. I hope that you have the decency to visit her – she wishes for your company."

Sherlock continued playing with his pen.

Mycroft looked up at John and coughed. "I'll be leaving."

John nodded. "Ah, right – Okay. See you then, Mycroft."

He opened the door and before he left, he looked over his shoulder and said, "If you aren't going to take care of yourself, Sherlock, at least hire a nanny."

**###**

"Mycroft is right, you know?" John said, handing Sherlock his coffee.

"Mycroft is never right." Sherlock took the mug and sipped. Hm, John's coffee making skills had improved greatly. Most likely Mary's doing - women's influence and all.

"Sherlock, this place is filled with rubbish."

He looked around. "Hm, I didn't think it was that bad. But I am aware."

"And you didn't decide that you might need to clean a bit?" John asked, cocking his head to the right. "You could get sick living like this." John actually sounded worried. Oh. He was.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh! Do you want to be my nanny then, John?"

"I have a wife to take care of," he said pointedly. "I'm just saying it might be a good idea to invest in a housekeeper."

"I have Mrs. Hudson," replied Sherlock.

"She's not your housekeeper," John argued.

"She's not?" Sherlock blinked and then took another sip of his black coffee. "Maybe I should just get married like you."

John nearly choked on his coffee. He looked up, his eyes wide. "Sherlock."

"Joke, John, joke," Sherlock muttered, sighing. "Fine. I'll look into after the case but right now I need time… to think."

They were silent for a few minutes, sipping on their coffee as the telly showed some sort of paternity game show with crazy people. Sherlock hated this show, everyone was so stupid, and listening to their little voices sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

"By the way, are you coming to the party tomorrow?" John asked, setting his cup down.

"What _party_?" Sherlock said the word 'party' as if it was most disgusting word in the English dictionary.

"Lestrade is having a small anniversary party for getting back together with his wife, Laura. It's been a year for them now."

"But she was sleeping with the trainer."

"They _worked_ it _out_." John thought he was being funny.

"She's probably sleeping with someone else then."

John flashed him a hard look.

"Or Lestrade is fine with his wife sleeping around," Sherlock amended.

"Are you going?" John sighed, giving up hope.

"Never got an invite."

"It's right here." John picked up a small white envelope that was sitting on the desk next to a pile of bills. Ah yes, Mrs. Hudson picked up his mail. "So?" he asked, lifting it up.

"I don't like parties."

"Everyone is going to be there," John said. "Donovan, Anderson and his wife, Sebastian and his girlfriend."

"Boring!"

"Charles and Molly, and you can even finally meet Mary," John finished.

"Charles is going to be there?" Sherlock asked, raising his chin.

"Yeah, he's coming with Molly."

This was good. An opportunity to see him, deduce him and understand the mechanics that went on in his small, small mind. "Then I should prepare a suit."

**###**

Sherlock had dressed up in a presentable suit for Lestrade's, what was it? Oh yes, anniversary party. The hall he rented was small but Lestrade's financial status wasn't exactly keen on anything grander. Overall, the party was quite simple and modest. Everyone was dressed in their best dresses and Sunday outfits. The guests were few and mostly people Sherlock recognized from Scotland Yard and Bart's.

Anderson tried to talk to him but Sherlock subtly inclined to his wife about his sexual relationship with Donovan, whom also tried to annoy him earlier this evening with her ridiculous notions. Payback was coming full force when Anderson's wife hauled him away to speak, and Donovan sat alone drinking. Yes, this was a good start.

"Lestrade." Sherlock finally caught the busy man's attention. Before he said anything, he looked at Laura. Yes, she was still sleeping with someone else but he bit his tongue and said nothing because John had told him specifically not to say anything that might cause a disruption (Anderson disruptions didn't count) and this was definitely news that would cause a dispute.

"Sherlock! I didn't actually think you were going to come," Lestrade smiled, holding up his poor excuse of champagne.

"I wasn't."

He frowned.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade!"

They turned their heads to find a woman making her way towards the inspector. Sherlock observed her. She had brown hair, messy, she was in a hurry. Pale blue cardigan, jeans, slippers, she was clearly not invited to this _party_. Seeking Lestrade's attention, she must be…oh. Jane Wilmont, the elementary school teacher that was on Headshot's hit-list. Why was she here? Had something happened? Sherlock became attentive at once.

"Jane, what's wrong? What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, putting his drink down.

"I was…I was scared," she said, her eyes teary and wide with hysteria, her fingers shaking.

"I've got people watching you, don't worry." Lestrade made an attempt to calm her down. "Everything is going to be fine. We're going to catch this guy."

"Tomorrow-"

"Is possibly your last day on Earth," Sherlock cut in, bored. "Yes, we're aware. Now get to the good part. Why are you so scared?" he inquired, leaning in.

Lestrade looked at him as if he just asked the stupidest question in the universe.

Jane stared at Sherlock, perplexed. "W-who are you?"

"Nobody important," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock a cold look. "Come on, let's talk. Laura, could you get her somewhere quiet?"

"Okay. Come with me, dear," Laura said, leading Jane across the hall.

"We'll talk later," Lestrade said. "Okay?"

"Or you can just text me," Sherlock muttered, passively shrugging.

The newly engaged, or married, or whatever it was that they were couple led the scared woman down the hall, pushing their way through the crowd and bumping into two couples who were making their way in together. It was Charles. He registered his pompous face immediately and next to him, wearing a pale pink frock, was Molly. Her hair was done straight, falling down her shoulders and making her face seem thinner. Sherlock almost didn't recognize her. Most likely Charles's doing, dressing up his new doll. Next to them, John was standing next to a whale, no Mary, who was the same height as John without the help of heels. Her stomach stuck out…_oh. _John had been busy, now he knew why.

"Sherlock," John grinned as they coddled around him.

"Hm. Yes." He looked at Charles who gave him a brief smile. Molly had her arm around him as she smiled at Charles. It was the same smile she had used to show him two years ago, bright and ebullient. Now she looked at Charles as if he could shoot rainbows out of his arse and barely paid Sherlock any attention. She was probably still mad.

"Hello, Molly." Sherlock forced her to turn and smile at him, too. It was a rather dry smile with forced affection. Dull.

"Sherlock." It was Mary, she stuck her hand out to greet him. "It's a pleasure to finally see you in person."

"Ah, yes. Congratulations on marrying the most boring man of this century and also, congratulations on your…um, thing." He looked at her bulge. She must've been around seven months in. He flashed John a look. He failed to mention he was going to be a father. Everyone, in fact, had failed to tell him anything about this.

John gave him a sheepish look and whispered, "Surprise?"

"Congratulations, John."

His lips parted into a small appreciative smile, full of warm gestures. It didn't mend the fact that he had been here for the past week and nobody had mentioned anything about babies.

Mary rested her hand over stomach. She smiled gingerly. "Dear, could you help me the restroom?"

John nodded. "Ah, right. Okay. We'll be back."

They rounded and left the hall carefully avoiding the other guests and left Charles, Molly and Sherlock in the deep waters alone.

**###**

Molly took a sip of the drink, careful not to drink too much because she was a terrible drunk. Her dress was tight, uncomfortable, and she felt overly dressed for the occasion. She seemed to stand out and it bothered her, the attention. Not to mention Charles had sat her down and forced her to get her hair straightened until they looked like flexible blades on her head. She felt out of place, out of her skin, as if she was someone else entirely.

"Want to play a game?" Charles asked, giving up on his champagne.

"Dull."

Charles snorted and forced a smile. The two of them acted like fighting children, who had a crush on one another, placed in the same room and forced to talk. Awkward, Molly thought.

"Come on, make an exception for me," Charles cajoled.

"What kind of game are we playing?" Molly interrupted, trying to get that deathly look off Sherlock's face.

Charles frowned at her and patted the back of her head like a little girl. "Just Sherlock and I, Molly. Observation game."

Molly quickly frowned but Sherlock seemed to be suddenly interested.

"Whoever deduces the most, wins. Naturally." Charles added a cherry to the ice-cream. "What say?"

Sherlock lifted his chin, stared at him for a second longer than necessary and then showed that dark challenging smirk. "_Game_."

Charles was the first to start. He pointed at a young woman. "Nearly forty, has a dark look about her face – probably nearing menopause and could hit a hot flash in the next five minutes by the way of her fiery eyes. Her jewelry is certainly fake, she was in rush and didn't have time to do her hair so she's telling everyone that her look was curved towards modesty. She's talking to that tall handsome man, most likely a young intern, he doesn't know anybody else and is keeping his attention scattered in order to seek new companionship but stays close to our old lady to avoid feeling out-casted."

"That's two subjects. Old lady and her intern friend," Sherlock noted. "The rules say you have to stick to one."

"We didn't make any…rules," Charles said, blinking.

"I just did."

"You can't do that," Charles countered.

"I just _did_," Sherlock repeated firmly.

Molly's frown deepened. "Charles, Sherlock's right. Just one at a time – it'll be easier."

Charles gave her a look that she couldn't articulate. "Oh. Did I say something wrong?" Molly asked, putting a hand over her mouth. Maybe she didn't understand the game the way she was supposed to have understood it.

Sherlock was pleased in some sense, most likely because she had just taken his side in this little spat unknowingly. Could she not please one without upsetting the other?

"See? Molly approves my rules."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Alright, scratch out what I said about the intern." He squinted at Sherlock. "Have anything else to add?"

Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Our forty year-old is not only nearing menopause but she's a cougar with no leash. She's trying desperately to chat up the intern because she foolishly believes she's still got the charm to bring a young man home with her tonight. That said, no ring, so she's probably widowed but she most definitely had been married and has at least one child based on the way her belly is curved against her dress, it's obvious." Sherlock pressed a finger to his cheekbone. "Botox shots to her cheeks and head, she's an avid user and hates the fact that she's aging and in order to make herself feel young again, she's attending this party, dressed in that atrocious dress that's twenty years too modish for her, eyeing the intern and keeping him within her claws so she can have him for dinner. If not, she might starve to death. Don't know how many more rejections she can take before she retires and gives up on life." Sherlock turned to Charles. "Did I miss anything?"

"Wow…" Molly whispered, gawking at him.

Charles pressed his lips together and glared at Molly.

She looked down and didn't apologize; it'd only make things worse. Charles had mentioned so graciously that he was jealous of Sherlock and her once upon a time infatuation with him. She peeked at the dark curly haired man. She'd forgotten how brilliant Sherlock was, how he could strip you down and read your secrets like a book if he really wanted to. She had to stop herself from staring at him so she concentrated on the wall instead, feeling guilty.

In the next ten minutes, the boys were at each other's throats. Snapping out their deductions like hitting consecutive home runs at a ball park and Molly's eyes were darting back and forth between the two until she got a headache from trying to keep up with them. She pressed her fingers to her temples and said, "I'm going out for a bit." They didn't hear her. _Okay_. She turned around and simply walked away as they argued over a teenage boy and what his haircut meant in comparison to the girl he was talking to.

**###**

Outside, Molly sat near the steps of the building and listened to the sound of the night crickets. No one else was outside, she was alone and it gave her a nice moment to think about things.

First and foremost, Sherlock was taking over her mind like dark clouds of a storm. Her boat was rocking. Molly swallowed and looked at her feet. Slowly, she took off her shoes and let her toes spring free of the lethal heels. She couldn't do this to Charles, no. He had been the best thing to ever happen to her. He, Charles was brilliant too, so smart and gentle and caring and she didn't deserve him. Heck, she wondered why Charles was even her boyfriend. He could have any woman he wanted and yet, he chose her. So why? Why did her heart ache at the very sight of Sherlock? Could it be pity? Could it…be that she still has feelings for him? No, she buried those feelings a long time ago. Unless, they were resurfacing again.

"Oh, god." Molly rubbed her face with her hands. Her chest began feeling heavy and constricted, like ropes had been tied around her heart. It was similar to torture and she just wanted it to end. It was pity, she told herself. She had seen his flat, seen how helpless and angry he looked. Alone with so few friends and now his friends had people of their own, things to do, places to be, and no one was orbiting him anymore. He was a sad man. And she pitied him.

**###**

"I think we all know who won this round," Sherlock said, fixing his coat with a secret winning smile.

"Please, it was clearly a draw," Charles muttered, sipping his drink angrily.

"A draw? I obviously had two more concrete deductions than you with solid evidence to follow."

Charles's eyebrows came together and he sighed. "If you insist to have won this round. Fine."

"I don't insist," Sherlock sneered. "I've won."

Charles smiled wryly. "Of course."

They were quiet for a few minutes. John had come back and they talked briefly before Mary was tired and wanted to go home and eat broccoli. Lestrade was making his rounds and taking his congratulations again. He mentioned that Jane had a breakdown and had Donovan take her to Scotland Yard to help calm her down.

John was gone so Sherlock had been texting him instead.

_To: John Watson_

_When did you decide to make a spawn? _

_#  
_

_From: John Watson_

_It's a baby, Sherlock, not a spawn. Mary and I aren't exactly young anymore and I've always wanted a child. _

_#  
_

_To: John Watson_

'_Child' will take up most of your time._

_#  
_

_From: John Watson_

_Um, I know! Oh, it's a boy, by the way. _

_#  
_

_To: John Watson_

_Hopefully he doesn't take after your appearance then._

_#  
_

_From: John Watson_

_Thank you, Sherlock. Your words are 'so' kind. _

_#  
_

_To: John Watson_

_Congratulations, John. Really. _

_#  
_

_From: John Watson_

…_Thank you. _

Charles turned around in his stool. "Where's Molly?"

"Not here," Sherlock said annoyed, stashing his mobile in his pocket. "Did you not notice? She's been gone for half an hour."

"Ah." Charles made a long face. Oh, perfect boyfriend forgets about girlfriend for half an hour? He clearly wasn't that interested in her so why was he with her? This made Sherlock upset. Molly, despite all, was someone Sherlock counted and trusted and if she was hurt, well, he would probably find ways to take vengeance or make wrongs right. This wasn't abnormal; he would do the same thing for John, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade if the occasion called.

"Molly cares for you dearly," Sherlock said carefully, watching his expression.

Charles looked at him with a small smile. "And I her."

"I doubt that," Sherlock muttered, indicting the forgetfulness earlier.

"Heat of the game," Charles reasoned. "And who are you to question my relationship with Molly."

"Her friend."

"Molly said you had no friends."

"Molly would never say that," Sherlock replied, smiling. He was lying. Sherlock knew Molly, knew her well enough that even if the world was against him, she would still stand in his corner, forever loyal.

Charles eyed him. "Maybe I'm just jealous?" he said with a passive shrug.

"I sincerely doubt that, as well."

"Come on," Charles said. "When I first met her, she wouldn't stop talking about you. How brilliant you were, how you could solve the unsolvable, your wit, intelligence – oh god, she went on and on." He rolled his eyes, exasperated. "She said you were one of a kind, no one could measure up."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Molly springing compliments about him on Charles, it shouldn't have felt as good as it really did. His shoulders rose. Was Charles honestly just jealous? Seemed like a rather low key motivator for any criminal activity. So what? What did Charles want? Why was he here? To prove himself? Fill Sherlock's shoes as the new consulting detective, a better one? Hah!

"She was wrong though," replied Charles with a smirk.

"Wrong?" Sherlock turned his head.

"What?" Charles asked. "You thought you were the only one?" He laughed. "You're wrong. You're not that special."

Sherlock hardened his jaw.

Charles leaned over with that darkened smile of his. "Consulting detective? Please, you might have invented the job but there are others like us: smart, observant, with the ability to do some of the most mind boggling tasks and piece puzzles together in ways these idiots would never even dream of." He grinned. "You're not the only one, Sherlock. Never were. So stop thinking yourself the sun. Oh right, you don't know the earth revolves around the sun." He smirked.

The corner of Sherlock's lips curled up in delight. Charles was trying to get under his skin. He must've said something to upset him. What was it though?

"You might be fooling everyone with this little act of yours," Sherlock said. "But I'm not buying any of this."

"Even after investigating my flat, you won't give up on this little game of hide and seek?"

Sherlock turned to him, surprised.

Charles's eyes lit up with a smile. "We're alike, Sherlock. Tell me you can't realise when someone's been prancing through your flat without your knowledge."

"Very well." He looked away and chuckled. "I've come to accept your skills of deduction, Charles Howard. This dexterity is not one you can easily counterfeit."

"Why, thank you. I'm glad we got that out of the way. But I assure you, I'm not in this for anything other than what it seems," he replied. "I love Molly, I like working with Lestrade, and I like my privacy so if you'd be kind enough, don't break into my flat ever again."

Sherlock smirked. "I don't make promises."

Charles laughed. "Right, you'd be human then."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Note:  
**_Thank you all for the wonderful comments and reviews and support and follows and pretty much everything! You're wonderful. Also, I would like to mention that the story is finally now progressing somewhere, well - at least, I hope it is (and correctly). In addition, I've started writing this more pensively so yeah...  
_

* * *

Molly shivered in the night's chill and rubbed her shoulders. She could see mosquitoes under the lamp lights and felt like open prey with her bare skin exposed.

"Molly?"

She turned around to find Sherlock with his hands in his pockets, standing above the stairs with an inquisitive stare.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Oh, I – erm, just sitting," she flustered as he approached and dropped down next to her. "What are you doing?" she asked when he didn't say anything.

"Charles is boring me. Lestrade won't answer my text – I think he's avoiding me after I told him to shut up and John went home with Mary," he said.

She frowned. He was alone. "Well, you have me." Her eyes widened and slapped her lips. "I mean, you know - if you want company."

"Why would I need company?" he asked, directing his eyes at her.

She swallowed. "Because you're alone," she said in a whisper. Every bone in her body was against it. It was really pointless trying to say anything to Sherlock but sometimes, she was just so stubborn to get her words out that she ended up blurting things normal people would have the consciousness to swallow.

"Being alone doesn't alarm me." He faced forward blankly.

"Humans are-"

"Yes, you've told me: Social creatures. I, unfortunately, Molly, am not a human. Just a creature. I don't need _company_. It's simply a luxury we can live without. Besides, I have my skull."

"That's not true."

He didn't say anything and gave off that vibe that usually meant he was done with the subject and if she wanted him to stay she'd have to shut her trap. They sat in a moment of silence until Molly couldn't bare the silence between the two of them and asked, "How did it feel?"

"How did what feel?"

"Being…um, dead?"

He blinked and turned to face her. It was the first time anyone had asked Sherlock how it was like being dead. Not about what he was doing, or where he was, or even 'how' it was. Simply, how he _felt_. Feelings. That wasn't Sherlock's strong point and he wasn't sure how to respond to the question so he gave his best answer:

"It was hardly a walk in the park."

"I would imagine," Molly muttered, playing with her hands and keeping her eyes distracted, waiting for him to say something more.

"Why, did you miss me Molly?"

"Um, I-I did. Yes."

"That's three."

"What?"

"Three people who've missed my presence. Honestly, that number is a bit higher than I imagined."

"Who are the other two?" She asked timidly.

"Besides you, John of course, and mummy," answered Sherlock.

"What about your brother? Lestrade missed you and so did Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You think families are obligated to miss each other? What a naïve world you live in. Lestrade obviously has Charles, there's no need for me there and Mrs. Hudson thought I was dead without passing a second guess."

"But…didn't she keep your flat?"

"That was mummy's doing."

"Oh." Molly frowned and played with her hands. "You're wrong, you know," she said after a moment, tilting her head to the side and keeping her focus carefully guarded on the grass at the bottom of the steps.

He cocked his head.

"You're missed by thousands, Sherlock. Maybe even hundreds of thousands of people," she noted.

"That number…is too generous and quite ridiculous Molly," he scowled.

She faced him, her eyes wide and expressive as a small genuine smile crept onto her thin pink lips. "I. Believe. In. Sherlock. Holmes," she whispered each word separately.

Sherlock was confused. He resorted to noticing the goosebumps crawl onto her forearms. Too bad he only had one jacket.

"Have you not noticed your campaign?" she asked quizzically. "I didn't think you would but…I still had hoped that you might."

"What campaign?"

"IBISH campaign, for short. You're plastered all over London, Sherlock. Not so much now but when you first jumped off the rooftop and faked your death, people might've applauded but…but there were thousands whose faith in you never flickered. They came into the light after your death. Posters, videos, street art, and vandalisms – it was chaotic. Everyone voiced their belief that you were not a fake, you were real – real and always will be real." Molly turned her torso, as if she was excited to be saying all this. "They even spread the rumors about your death being a fake – I swear, it wasn't me!" She put a self-justifying hand over her chest.

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't…understand." He blinked a few times, trying to process the information. "Who would want to do that?" he asked, as if the idea was absolutely outrageous.

"You've helped families," Molly explained. "You might not have really done it for them but you still stop the bad guys," she added. "You saved hundreds of lives from Moriarty when he had bombers around every corner in London. You saved children from real-life vicious fairy tales and reunited them with their parents, and even saved a little boy from exploding into a million pieces, found and put murders in jail and brought justice for those who thought it was impossible." Molly's eyes had brightened as she looked at Sherlock and for a brief moment, the old Molly was back, the one Molly who looked at Sherlock as if he was the greatest thing on earth. But it was brief and her elation disappeared when Sherlock turned his eyes.

"Those people you helped along the way," Molly continued after calming down. "They were the ones who came out and told the rest about your…_brilliance_!" She threw her hands up. "You have fans and followers, Sherlock. People do care, more than just three and with the news spreading around that you're alive – I mean…it's _wonderful_ news. People are rejoicing. People are happy you're back and the media can shove it for believing in Moriarty." She grinned.

Sherlock snorted. "Rejoicing? Happy? That's a bit far-fetched even for you, Molly."

She glowered at him. He didn't believe it? Why should he? Sherlock had always convinced himself that people generally didn't like him and it was true to a point. People didn't normally really like Sherlock, he was rude, arrogant, pompous, and lacked general mannerisms but for those few who knew Sherlock, they knew he was a great man, in one messed up way or another.

"Don't be sad."

He narrowed his eyes at her, was angry with her statement.

"People can _see_ you."

**###**

Sherlock kept his chin lowered as he approached 221b Baker Street after his talk with Molly. She had always been a bucket full of emotions and after speaking with her, Sherlock felt as if he had been dumped in cheese. It was grotesque the way she danced around and spoke as if butterflies and fairies lived next door and fed her biscuits.

Making his way up the stairs, something caught his attention. Someone was in his flat. He could tell by the doormat being slanted sideways, someone had stepped on it, dragging it back a few centimeters. Sherlock kept his stance alert as he neared the door. Who would come into his flat at this hour? Everyone he knew was at Lestrade's _party_ and Mycroft had already come and gone. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't come in unannounced so that would leave…an enemy. Sherlock had many enemies and his recent one would most likely be the headshot killer. Yes, he was on his trail…probably come to shoot Sherlock in the head and run away. Fool.

Like before, the killer was most likely hiding behind the door so Sherlock turned the knob and opened it slowly. From the crack, he made out black fabric. Ah, he was right.

With a strong push, he slammed the door back and struck the figure behind it. He let out a grunt and then pushed the door back but Sherlock evaded and reached to grab a weapon, a lamp. Too late. The killer tackled him with much strength and broke Sherlock's favorite coffee table in half, and then hit him across the head with a gun's handle. Sherlock's head slammed onto the floor as pain seared through his right temple. The killer got off him quickly and opened the window, escaping through it.

Sherlock coughed and shook himself awake, dispersing his slight concussion. No, he had to catch him. Groggily getting up, he looked out the window. The killer had jumped down two levels and rolled onto his back and got up, running away. Skilled, so very skilled, in the art of parkour, apparently. With a grin, Sherlock turned and ran down the steps, escaping through the back door and following after his headshot killer.

Sherlock was fast but the killer was much faster. They darted, took shortcuts and were seemingly almost on the same level of physical strength and stamina. Sherlock chased the dark figure for a few long blocks, avoiding taxis and pedestrians, before retiring and watching him escape after crossing a busy street and disappearing down an alley. He was wearing a large hoodie, jeans and running sneakers. Sherlock barely had a chance to register his face in the darkness of his flat but he knew who it was. Yes, who else would match him on such a level?

He brought out his mobile and texted Molly.

_To: Molly Hooper_

_Where is Charles? Tell me now. _

_#  
_

_From: Molly Hooper_

_Somewhere. Do you want to talk to him?_

_#  
_

_To: Molly Hooper_

_YES. _

_#  
_

_From: Molly Hooper_

_I'll look for him. _

Molly had been looking for Charles for a while now and couldn't pinpoint his location anywhere at the party. She had asked a few people who mentioned seeing Charles leave the party earlier. Where had he gone? Why did Sherlock want to speak to him?

After another fifteen minutes of mindless searching, she found Charles in the back of the building with a cigarette to his lips.

"Charles?"

He turned quickly and dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his shoes. "Ah, Molly…"

"I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"I've been here the whole time," he said regrettably.

Molly fixed his ruffled blazer and tightened his loosened tie. "You were smoking…"

"Sorry…" He looked down at her through his lashes.

She gave a brief smile and shook her head. "It's alright. I know you dislike parties. I'll let this one slide," she consoled.

A charming smile swept up on his lips. "You're always so lenient with me. What did I do to deserve you?"

"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing," she answered, patting his shoulders clean.

He leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. Didn't kiss her, though he would've liked to, just that his breath was not the most obliging. "Should we just go home?" he asked, nudging her cheek with his nose.

Molly nodded. He grinned but frowned when she placed her mobile in his hand. "Sherlock wanted to speak with you."

"Can't get enough of me," Charles said with a sigh. "Looks like you have some competition."

She smiled while feeling oddly unwell at his statement.

Charles texted him back on her mobile but Sherlock didn't answer back.

There was a deep feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach as she watched Charles. Earlier this evening she was swooning over Sherlock as she spoke about his movement, of his brilliance and watching his chiseled face in the moonlight – goodness she had gone back to being that silly mousey Molly and she hated herself for it. Especially when she had Charles right at her side being as sweet as he ever was. Charles gave her everything she wanted and needed and yet, was it not enough? Not enough to burn out all the feelings she had for Sherlock. God help her.

**###**

_The time_, Sherlock thought, _the time_. After leaving Charles, he spoke to Molly for nearly twenty minutes and it took him fifteen minutes time to get to his flat, and roughly twenty minutes after his chase, Molly texted him after finding Charles. Ah, that sly dog. It was timed accordingly, he even ran towards the party's location. Charles had the time to leave, wait at his flat, escape and get back to the party without anyone really questioning his disappearance.

The man waiting in his flat was definitely Charles. He had no doubts. Charles, with his arrogance and his passiveness for Sherlock breaking into his flat – surely a normal man wouldn't be so flattered and dismissive about such an intrusion, yet Charles let him off with just a warning?

"Come on!" Sherlock exclaimed to his skull. "It was him. He was strong, nearly the same height as Charles, it was him." He bit his lip, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Why was he in my flat?" he pondered. "He wanted to kill me? No," he sang. "He had the chance, didn't take it. It was a warning? To stay back? Get off the case?" Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and paced about the room. "He knew I knew. This was a message. He could come again, anytime, when I sleep and shoot me dead." Sherlock grinned widely. Ohhhhh, this was much more interesting now.

"Charles, Charles, Charles…I will expose you."

Sherlock then noticed something behind his door. A smudge, something that wasn't there before. He tip-toed closer to it and leaned his head down, extending his neck.

Blood.

###

Molly's bare back was only half covered the white sheets. Charles leaned over and kissed her shoulder lightly. She didn't stir, much too deep in sleep. He slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom, washed his face, brushed, showered and came out in a crisp suit and tie. Molly was awake now and he could smell her waffles from the kitchen.

"Morning," she said, dressed his shirt.

"I love your choice of wardrobe," Charles said, sitting down at the table as she fetched him a plate.

She grinned over her shoulder. "I really need to do my laundry."

"Don't, you can borrow all my clothes," he said, smiling. "Everything in here is as much yours as it is mine."

She blinked and set his breakfast down. She watched him cut the waffles. He knew something was wrong with her.

"Is something the matter?" Charles asked, looking up, still chewing.

She shook her head and pressed her lips together firmly. It was her signature move in indicating that something was wrong. It was most likely Sherlock; she had been different ever since he returned. With a sigh, she leaned over and kissed him on the head.

"It's nothing."

When a woman said 'nothing', it was clearly everything that was wrong.

**###**

Molly was in the lab, her eyes under the microscope as she looked over a few cells from a recent extraction. She scribbled her findings in a notebook and then put the petri dish away. She took off her gloves the same moment the doors burst open and Sherlock walked in.

"Molly, I require your lab," he said.

"Um…okay," She watched him as he opened a small plastic bag and scraped something down into a petri dish and turned on the computer. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"DNA profiling. I've asked Lestrade to come with forensics. This is the blood sample from the man who attacked me last night." He looked up and then back down. "I'm here to verify his identity."

Molly gasped and quickly came to his side. "Someone attacked you?" She dipped her head to try to look at his face. "Oh, my god! Sherlock, your head! Are you alright?"

"Hm? Oh yes, I'm fine." He coughed and continued concentrating on his work.

She stared at the wound above his right eyebrow. "You should put a bandage on that. Here, I can get you something." She turned around.

"Its fine Molly," Sherlock said, irritated. "I'm alright, it's simply a scratch."

Molly grabbed a bandage and tape anyway. "Okay, turn around."

He rolled his eyes and swerved in his seat. The blood was already going through the criminal database and all he needed to do was verify who it belonged to. If nothing showed, he's run it with the hospital's database and try to match it there and if all else failed, he could get a sample of DNA from Charles. Hm, perhaps Molly had some on her though he doubted she'd be willing to comply.

Molly applied some ointment over his forehead as he sat still, his eyes on her. His right leg bounced up and down restlessly. She pressed the bandage to his head and he winced just slightly.

"Sorry." She finished and smiled. "There, that looks more presentable." She caught his eyes and flushed. Oh god, she was doing it again. She looked away quickly and began cleaning up.

"Molly."

She swallowed and peeked at him. "Um-yes?"

He kept his blue eyes on her. "Thank you."

She flushed again though she had no idea why he was thanking her. "Um, for what?" She bit her lip and shook her head. "For the bandage, right um, it's not a problem." She blinked.

"For telling me about…the, what was it, IBISH?" He quirked an eyebrow. "I realized that my face had been plastered over a few different places this morning. Someone should really clean it all up or at least do my touch-ups. The rain and snow has ruined most of the artwork."

"Oh that. Y-yes, you're welcome," she expelled, scratching her eyebrow.

Her heart was stammering in her chest. The way Sherlock's eyes observed her was too calculating, and she knew he had probably already deduced her feelings and the fact that he knew, made me heart ache. She tried to look away but the spell had already been cast and they looked at one another in silence. Molly felt like building being torn bit by bit with every passing second. All the past two years gone to waste and she was back where she started, a puppet in his palms, trapped in a sort of destructive one-sided love affair.

The door opened and Charles walked in. Molly gasped and took a defensive step back from Sherlock. Guilt, it slammed into her the second she her eyes upon his face. Charles's looked back and forth between the two of them suspiciously.

"Molly…sweetheart, there's a new body in the morgue…could you look over it? Lestrade is downstairs."

"Um, okay." She swallowed and quickly fled without even passing anyone a second glance.

Sherlock's eyes sparked. "A new body?"

"May I have a word with you, Sherlock?" Charles asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What word?"

Charles waited until Molly had gone and they could no longer hear her loud footsteps. Then he faced Sherlock with a fierce look. "Stay back."

"Stay back? From what?"

"Molly."

Sherlock smiled and rolled his eyes. "You think I have an infatuation with mousey Molly? Please, my tastes in women aren't as nearly degraded as yours and I find women rather tedious and problematic anyway."

"Shut up," Charles hissed. "I don't care about what type of _feelings_ you might have for her but as her partner I have every right to interfere here. She loved you at one point in time, I don't understand bloody why, but she did and I don't want you to invoke those feelings in her again. Don't play around with her, Sherlock."

"I'm not playing around, she's my pathologist."

"Was, your pathologist," Charles corrected instantly. "She's mine now and I won't let you hurt her because you have some sort of stupid vendetta against me. She's not a toy so stop acting like a child."

"Molly is still someone I care about," Sherlock replied evenly. "I wouldn't want to hurt her. Not intentionally."

Charles put his hands on his hips and glared at him askew. "How can you trust yourself to not hurt someone? You aren't even human."

Sherlock didn't argue back and leered at Charles.

Something beeped and they turned towards the computer screen. Match. The blood test had found a counterpart in the database. Sherlock quickly brought up the file. It was an Asian man in his late thirties. He had dark eyes and hair with suntan skin and an assault charge dated back four years ago. Details were unimportant, he was drunk and it was a bar fight. Nothing special.

"That's the dead guy." Charles pointed. "Jacob Park."

"He's dead?" Sherlock asked, alarmed. No, this was his killer – this blood was supposed to be Charles's. Wait. No, the blood could've easily belonged to – "Let me guess, headshot killer's victim?"

Charles nodded grimly. "Warehouse down south called it in this morning."

And Sherlock hadn't gotten the call?

**###**

Sherlock and Charles went down to the morgue where Molly was examining the body. Lestrade and Anderson were at one corner with their hands across their chest and on the other end, John stood with his hands in his jacket pockets.

"John?" Sherlock cocked his head. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Sherlock!" John smiled brightly. "Charles called me in. Said something about the headshot killer – another strike. Jane ended up being safe but this poor bloke got it in the head." John nudged his chin at the cadaver with the small hole in his cranium.

Sherlock eyed John. Now Charles was calling his blogger in? Was there nothing that Charles didn't do that had his name written over? He inhaled deeply and then approached the body. "How long has he been dead?"

"Since yesterday," Molly mumbled. "No other apparent trauma…" she babbled on about trifling things.

All Sherlock needed to know was that the killer in his flat had come straight after shooting his man. This messed up the time frame, it wasn't Charles. Wonderful. So Charles wasn't his killer but Sherlock knew he was still connected to all of this somehow. "Jane was heavily guarded," Sherlock said slowly. "Too heavily guarded that the killer couldn't get in easily, too dangerous even for him, so he took out this target instead. But who is this man?"

"A freelance journalist," Lestrade answered, chewing on a piece of gum. "I asked Fitzgerald's wife, she doesn't know anything about this man, he's not connected to them."

He was making irritating noises and Sherlock pointed to the trash. "No gum in the classroom, Lestrade. Too distracting."

"Who made you teacher?" Anderson spat.

"Shut up and go home, Anderson," Sherlock snarled.

"You're the one who called me here!"

"Don't need you anymore, already solved the forensics evidence on my own, thank you. Now leave." Sherlock tilted his head towards the door.

Anderson threw his hands up. "No!"

"Go home!" It was Charles who interjected with an annoyed growl. He realized what he had done and coughed into his fist and smiled. "There's really nothing else you could do there. Molly's got the rest. You're wife's home isn't she? Spend some time with her instead these cadavers."

Anderson pressed his lips together and tried to argue but there was nothing to argue against. He turned around and stomped out of the morgue, muttering things to himself.

Lestrade dropped his gum into the bin and stared at Charles and Sherlock. "Something biting both your arses or is it just me again?" He eyed Sherlock.

John and Molly both stared at them curiously.

"What was his current project?" Sherlock asked, ignoring everyone.

"He was writing some column for some museum recently. Other than that, he had a few small projects."

"Museum?" He lifted his chin in that manner that showed he knew something. "John, I require your assistance. If you're not too busy prancing around with _Charles_, that is."

John blinked and looked at Charles, who nodded knowingly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. People seemed to enjoy making sure Charles was okay with whatever it was that they were doing. First Molly and now John. Oh, god! How it irked him.

"Alright, Sherlock. Shall we?" John walked up to him and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock was absolutely pissed off.

**###**

"Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock!"

Sherlock kept up his pace, walking quick and briskly without giving little John a chance to catch up to his long strides.

"SHERLOCK!" John grabbed his arm and halted him on the street. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" he shouted. "You've been acting like a git this entire afternoon!"

Sherlock winkled his nose with disgust. "Oh, I'm sorry_ John_ that I walk too fast and I'm not nearly as gentle mannered and friendly as Charles!" he snarled sardonically.

"This is about Charles?" He nodded, accepting this fact. "Alright, why?" John asked, shifting his weight onto another leg to appear bigger than he was and crossing his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh no, you're getting away with this. Tell, what's the matter with the both of you."

"There's nothing wrong with me! There's something wrong with Charles." He pointed outward.

"Why? Why would there be anything wrong with him?"

Sherlock held John's shoulders. "Can't you see it, John? He's not who he says he is!"

John opened his mouth and stared at Sherlock with utter shock. "N-not who he says he is? Jesus, Sherlock! Who the hell do you think he is then? Don't tell me you think he's our killer or something."

Sherlock dropped his hands.

"Oh, god. Sherlock! How could you even think that?" John exasperated, rubbing his eyes. "What have you been doing this entire time to come to that conclusion?"

"I've been watching him. Carefully."

John inhaled deeply. "And?"

"He's much too clean John. Too clean as if he's trying to hide something. I broke into his flat, I checked the place thoroughly. Not even pornography, John. Nothing."

"He has Molly and he's quite cultured, I don't think you'll be finding dirty magazines under his bed! And he grew up with a nurse for a mother, Sherlock!" John defended.

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "No. He knew I investigated his flat, knew about it and let me off with a warning."

"Charles knows you through us," John reasoned. "He probably already figured he would have you snooping around and just let you go. He's a nice guy; he can't be the bad guy!"

"Nothing is impossible, John!" Sherlock shouted, aggravated.

John clenched his jaw.

Sherlock glared. "John. You have to trust me on this. There is something wrong with Charles – something I can't pinpoint, again, it's mostly intuition but if searched for properly, evidence can be found. I need your help John. Trust me on this. Please. If he's dangerous, Molly is in peril and not to mention anyone else who is connected to him – so pretty much, everybody," Sherlock replied.

John shook his head, completely bewildered by Sherlock's behavior. He wondered what had happened to him over the past two years to have doubts about a perfectly normal man. John blinked, as a thought occurred to him. Charles was – indeed, very normal, in a way Sherlock never was.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're not just…um," John tried to find the best way to say this. "Jealous?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slowly and he tilted his head with a sick appearance. "_Jealous?_"

"Charles is…well, he's like you but – nicer and less of a sociopath and more highly functioning. Are you sure you're not just upset about that? I mean, that's pretty normal. The guy is a genius and he's not as much of a git as you are and he's here doing all the things you used to be doing and well, I know that can be hard – to see someone else come and take your place. I understand how that is, it's happened to me before." John looked up at the twisted expression on Sherlock's face. John wasn't happy to be saying this but he needed to let Sherlock know that he was wrong this time. "Sherlock, we just have to accept it and move on. Live with the new things that come and…when they leave, continue to live on."

Sherlock looked down at his friend. Something was hurting and he wasn't sure what, maybe it was his forehead that was patched up. John wasn't on his side; he wasn't going to help him expose Charles. No one would help him and if wanted this done, he would have to do it on his own. Alone.

"Alright, John…" Sherlock forced himself to say. "Continue to live then."

John swallowed as he watched Sherlock turn and continue his arrogant walk down the crowded street. Was this a break-up? John had broken up with many girlfriends and friends, parted ways with many close relatives but with Sherlock – he wasn't sure what this meant. Was he going to delete him? He wished he could mend the rift but there was something deeply wrong with Sherlock if he thought Charles was the villain here and John was torn between two of his good friends. They were two brilliant stars that couldn't exist in the same galaxy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**Note:  
**_A little shout to Howlynn for giving me some wonderful ideas and being such a great reviewer. Failed to mention it earlier but I'm amending. ;) Also, apologies to Lililoop because she seems to be the one who hates Charles the most! And to the rest of my little followers and readers, thank you for sticking with the story and giving it chance. I know it's dreadfully long, slow, and annoying. _

_Also, this chapter was supposed to be part of chapter five but it was too long and bit on the emotional side so I cut it up. Therefore, this chapter is actually a bit shorter. Hopefully you don't mind. _

_Thank you all so much for the support and comments. Every single one is appreciated and keeps me going.  
_

* * *

The clock ticked consecutively as Sherlock sat in his flat. Newspaper from last week was still on the floor, the telly was turned on but mute with subtitles hovering over the bottom screen. Crazy people were arguing about fathers and mothers. It was hot inside. Dirty dishes in the sink, Chinese food on his desk and his coffee table was still broken. Sherlock was in his robe and slippers eyeing the moving figures inside the black box.

It had been three days since he last talked to John. Lestrade hadn't even contacted him either. Mrs Hudson came in earlier and told him to clean up his 'rubbish' but he yelled at her because she was being a nuisance. She ran off like a frightened rabbit. Molly too, she was rather busy with Charles that she didn't bother to text him after he decidedly went AWOL.

Sherlock pressed his hand to his forehead. Bringing up Charles's name was rewarded with a migraine. He opened up his cigarette box and lit one up. He blew the smoke up into the air and watched it dance.

He wasn't needed. No cases, the media had grown tired of him. No more reporters or internet articles. Sherlock was past news.

_Live with the new things that come and…when they leave, continue to live on. _

Sherlock's eyebrows came together as he puffed again. He had been thinking for the last few days, just one simple thing. One equation, really. If he simply took out the C-variable, would the past and present part of the equation balance out? Most of it, surely there are differences on each end but he could formulate it to his acceptance. All he needed to do was to get rid of this annoying C-variable first.

And why shouldn't he? Charles was obviously wrong somewhere. He had taken all his possessions – people – he was liar and thief.

Molly knew full well he hadn't died and still allowed Charles to easily slip into her life. Was she that desperate to have someone like himself? He was aware of her affection and no doubt Charles was her way of dealing with the truth that he would never, ever, fall for her. Love was not his _thing_. So she settled for the second rate copy, an imitation, because the real one was too _rare_, and quite _priceless. _

Sherlock was filling bitter, colder than usual and he suddenly grew a new disgust for everyone around him. John, he couldn't deal with his death and found a new genius to play around with? Easily replaceable, was he? Lestrade didn't have an ounce of loyalty in him at all. Everyone – all of them were sickening and no different than those fickle minded reporters that believed in Moriarty's stupid tale of a children's actor and forced him off the roof.

Yet, even with this newfound disgust, Charles lingered in between like a chocolate cake. So delicious and interesting. A beautifully camouflaged chameleon that Sherlock wanted a slice of it, taste, to discover what true dirty flavour it held.

Sherlock blew another long puff of his cigarette. He needed something at least 20% stronger and had been close to purchasing something off the streets but decided against it. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, and took another drag.

Charles lived Sherlock's life, with his people, his friends, his enemies even, and completely took over London as this new…_consulting detective._ The nicer one. The more acceptable one and Sherlock fully recognized that. Yes, he did, but that didn't mean he had to accept it. Charles was the master, everyone else was his marionettes, dancing between his fingertips as he hid in the back, a devilish charming smile on his lips and in the audience, there was only Sherlock watching the play unfold.

"I won't allow it," Sherlock said aloud. His eyes opened and glared into his faint reflection in the window. He was going to interrupt Charles's play and take back what was rightfully his. "I won't give you anything, Charles. I don't share." Slowly, he smiled cunningly. Like any predator protecting his home, Sherlock was going to fight until either his rival gave up, or blood was spilt.

Charles had challenged him from the day they first met in the morgue; Sherlock knew full well of his stance. There was no way he was going to give up. The game, it had been on all along and case was a distraction, keeping him from finding out the truth behind the layers of Charles Howard.

He looked over at his only friend, his skull. At least inanimate, or previously animate, objects never stabbed you in the back after you risked your life for them.

"I need to call in a favour."

**###**

John, Lestrade and Charles were talking to Jane in her small flat. She was still quite shaken up over the news of Jacob Park being killed and felt her time was coming. More paranoid than ever, she had set up new security on her doors and stayed home, took a leave of absence from the elementary school she taught at and waited for Scotland Yard to catch this headshot murderer.

Charles was sitting across from Jane in the living room, talking to her about her position and trying to keep her calm. Lestrade was standing nearby. Every now and then, he'd chip in something about her safety to seem important. He _was_ the real detective inspector.

As they spoke to the possible victim, John did what Sherlock taught him to do best. Observe. He looked at Jane's belongings, the little things she had set up around her flat. She had some old photos of her in a group, a few old trophies in a cabinet from a varsity track team. Pictures of her and her students hung in her halls, clean dishes, floors, and a fabulous collection of stuffed animals in her bedroom, which also had light pink walls. She seemed to live like a teenage girl. John turned his head and watched as Jane sobbed into her palms. And acted like one, too.

After speaking with Jane and comforting her, Charles and John said goodbye to Lestrade and then walked together to get lunch.

"Don't you think it's odd?" John asked.

"What is odd?"

"You mentioned the killer having an interval of four days but Jacob Park was killed a day before the scheduled time," John said. "Have ideas why?"

Charles clicked his tongue. "Our killer could be in a rush – they have time limits for such things too. Due dates. Perhaps Jacob Park was getting on something. Killer could've easily just popped a bullet in him because he was irritated." Charles used his finger and thumb as a fake gun. "Speed up the process. Again, we don't know much about Headshot. All we know is he's not afraid, very clean, very thorough, and apparently doesn't care much for certain protocols. Perhaps it's another message for the victims: their time is running out." He peeked at John who swallowed hard.

"Has um, Sherlock tried to contact you?" John asked, scratching the back of his head.

"No, I haven't heard from him in a few days. And he doesn't contact me – not really."

John frowned. Lestrade hadn't been texting Sherlock either, something about him being repetitive and rude. Charles was rubbing off of him; he was getting softer if he couldn't take jabs from Sherlock without getting his feelings hurt.

"Why?" Charles looked down. "Something wrong with Sherlock?"

"Something?" John laughed. "There's more than just something wrong with Sherlock."

"He's a peculiar one."

"He's a git but he's my friend," John added. "It's not easy, you know, coming back from the dead. I kinda went through the same thing when I returned from the army. Had a psychosomatic limp, did I tell you?"

Charles nodded. "Molly told me about it, actually. So what? You think Sherlock has some sort of…psychosomatic injury as well? I didn't notice anything…" He lifted his chin towards the sky.

"Maybe not psychosomatic, more like… a psychiatric disorder."

Charles quirked up an eyebrow. "What are you saying, Dr. Watson?"

John let out a heavy sigh. "Sherlock…he hasn't been himself lately…"

"Years apart can change people, John."

"Sherlock doesn't change," John stated. "He might be good for a while, but won't ever change his core. He's…just…well, if you hear anything weird from him, just don't listen to it, okay?"

"You must be in such a difficult position," Charles muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"Protecting me from Sherlock, protecting Sherlock from me. You're the monkey in the middle," he chuckled and smiled at John admiringly. "I understand, John. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself – Sherlock, that I'm not so sure."

John frowned, pushed his lips together and felt the guilt eating away at him for not being at Sherlock's side right now. But how could he? Sherlock was blaming an innocent man. John stole at glance at Charles. His light blonde hair was neatly cropped, his tall figure made Sherlock seem like mini giant in comparison and his slow and selfless stride didn't exactly seem to match the crisp, edgy suits he wore. Charles…could he be someone worth worrying about? John shook the notion out of his head. Damn Sherlock for planting it there. John had known Charles for six months and he trusted the poor bloke. He knew everything about Charles, the suffering he went through as a child so how could he be an enemy in the dark? There was no way. None. The only thing John could do for Sherlock was to help him out of this paranoia. For someone who risked his life for him, John owed his friend that much and more. He just had to figure out by what method. How did one help a sociopath?

**###**

Molly was in the morgue, working with Jacob Park's body when the doors slammed open. She looked up quickly only to notice John.

"Hello John," Molly greeted with a chirp.

"Molly," John nodded. He stood, gathering his head as Molly stared at him quizzically.

"Um…is there something you need?" she asked.

His teeth tugged at his bottom lip. "Yeah, actually. I'm sorry to bother you with this Molly, I really am but nobody else would be willing to do this, you know?" He squinted painfully and rubbed his head. "Oh, god. That's the worst way to open up a request, isn't it?"

Molly giggled. "I get worse. What can I do for you John?"

John smiled dryly. "Not quite so much for me but for Sherlock."

"Oh."

He sighed and put his hands into his pockets. "He's been out of action for three days, unlike him, especially considering this case but…could you, if you want, that is –purely a request – go check on him?" He registered her surprised expression and added, "I would do it myself but Sherlock and I sort of…had an argument. I don't think he wants to see me right now."

Molly blinked. She hadn't talked to or heard from Sherlock in three days. Not that she hadn't really wanted to check on him to make sure he wasn't dead in his flat but because he was doing something to her. She was afraid of traveling back into that dark world that was Molly Hooper two years ago. Where his word was her every command and all it took was a simple smile for her realm to tilt.

_You._

Her insides cringed. Bittersweet feelings aroused inside of her from a previous memory. Just one word could make her do something she never thought she would. Fake a death, break the law, and watch everyone around her wallow in sadness while she knew the truth. That somewhere out there, this man's heart was still beating.

**###**

Molly ended up going to 221b Baker Street out of pity for John. Mrs Hudson was at the door when Molly knocked.

"Molly dear! Come in. What are you doing here? Are you here to see Sherlock?"

She nodded. "If I may."

"He's not in right now…"

"He's not? Where is he?"

"Went to pick up something, I think. Didn't tell me, not that he ever does. Boy does all sorts of weird things these days. I reckon it's the world, you know, it gets to you." Her eyes widened knowingly.

Molly nodded as if she understood.

"Do you want to wait in the living room? I don't think he'll be long." Mrs Hudson smiled brightly. "Although…it's a bit of a mess…" Her smile dropped instantly.

Molly shook her head. "I don't mind. I'll just wait for a bit."

When she opened up the door to Sherlock's flat, she nearly tripped and fell over a broken wooden leg that belonged to a coffee table – which was broken in half. There was Chinese takeout on the desk and the laptop was still on. Newspapers on the floor, dust everywhere, dishes in the sink, weird experiments on the kitchen table, and there was a bizarre smell like ash and coffee endemic in the room.

Had Sherlock been sleeping and eating in here? Molly tentatively sat down in Sherlock's armchair, observing the area. Mrs Hudson wasn't a housekeeper, she couldn't be bothered if Sherlock didn't clean up his mess and would probably charge him until his pockets were dry for this mess later.

Molly waited for a few more minutes in silence and then she couldn't take it anymore. She was a pathologist for Christ's sake and cleanliness was mandatory. After years, it had just become a habit – a very tedious one but a habit nonetheless. And she felt bad for Sherlock. He had no one to buy or cook him food, he was rather unskilled when it came to taking care of himself. She wondered how he managed to come out looking impeccably clean and sharp when he'd been living in a place like this. She had been to 221b Baker Street a few times before, it wasn't nearly this dirty, then again that was during John's time, and Sherlock was normally a clean person whose fingernails never seemed to get dirt underneath.

This, however, lack of pristineness was clearly because there was something upsetting him.

Molly took off her trench coat, rolled up her sleeves and began her work. She picked up the rubbish off the floors, organized some books and dusted the windows. After the living room was finished, she went to the kitchen and ran her magical fingers through it until the place was sparkling.

She washed her hands and then then sat back down in the armchair. After another few minutes, the door opened and Sherlock walked in. He halted instantly. He looked at her sternly and she suddenly thought cleaning up his flat was hardly the best idea she ever had. He was going to be angry – really angry.

He stripped off his scarf and tossed it on the sofa, realizing that the coffee table was gone. She'd thrown it away.

"What you doing here Molly?" he asked coldly, ignoring her and sitting down in his desk. He made no comment on his spotless flat.

"I…I just came to check up on you."

"You've checked. Now leave."

"Sherlock-"

"I said leave!" He shouted, slamming his palms on the desk.

Molly flinched, her heart stammering inside. Oh god, she had really pissed him off. "S-Sherlock I'm sorry for cleaning it up. I just…I just thought-"

"Stop thinking then," he snarled. "It's obviously not your strong point. Then again, hardly anything is," he added, throwing his hands up.

Why was he being so forbidding? "Sherlock did something happen? What's the matter?"

He turned around in his seat and the way he looked at her…it was demonic. Angry, cruel as if he wanted to tear her limb from limb right on the spot and possibly the scariest look she'd ever seen him wear.

"Sher-"

His anger was leashed by his small voice. He leaned over, inhaled and said, "You. Don't. Count. Anymore."

Molly's lips parted. There was something concrete in the way he said those words. Irreversible. Before, this wouldn't have mattered. She knew she didn't amount anything to him. But then he said she did, and everything was good – for a moment. However, saying she didn't count anymore was the same as taking back a gift she cherished. Her eyes were watering.

"I'm taking back what's mine," Sherlock added. "Not you though…you're _his_." His eyes dug deeper, absorbing all her hurt as if it was sustenance. "You brought him in. I've always trusted you, Molly. I did and you broke it, _my trust_. You let him in and left the door open for him to take everything and twist it around in his dirty hands and he's contaminated you all!"

The tears now rolled down her cheeks and she reached out for him. "Charles…Charles is not bad, Sherlock. Please!" she cried, begging him to see her honesty. "I never, I never ever put you second. God, Sherlock, never."

Sherlock didn't allow her to touch him. "All lies," he sneered. "Charles and you, both liars. What a perfect couple." He got up and grabbed his coat again, swinging it over his shoulders. He pulled on his scarf and glared down at her. Not even feeling an inkling of remorse upon seeing her condition. "Charles _is_ a bad man. And you will see it and I will be right."

**###**

Molly was in her flat, in her bathroom, and Toby was purring at her feet.

This should have been good news, Molly thought. She brushed her hair, staring idly in her mirror as she ran the brush down the same strands more than fifty times. She could cut ties. She could _delete_ him. This argument could be their last, their falling and she would never have to see Sherlock again. She could move away. She could ask Charles – he'd be willing to do it for her. She knew he would. He loved her.

But she loved Sherlock.

She was crying again, silently. Upon realizing she had just been lying to herself for six months she'd been with Charles. When she saw him, she pictured Sherlock. When she showcased his brilliance, she thought of Sherlock. When he smiled, when they lay in bed, when they spoke, cuddled, laughed and played – all of it, all of it was Sherlock and it was appalling. She was horrible. Absolutely terrible and she knew it from the second she discovered him. He was simply _his _replacement.

Her chest inflated and deflated as she pushed her inside belly to keep her face straight. She recalled Sherlock's anger, his twisted expression filled with so much hate and loss. Charles's mere presence had done this to him. She closed her eyes as tears dropped down her cheeks, landing in the sink. She opened them again, ran a brush through her hair. It was her fault. He was right.

Even so, there was a part of her that loved Charles – for being just Charles. So she wasn't completely heartless towards him. His sweetness, his love for her that expanded so far, he almost worshipped the ground she walked on at times and it was unimaginable. A dream come true. In ways more than one, Charles was prince charming.

She set her brush down. Nevertheless, she was stuck in-between somewhere. A reality and a fantasy. Maybe she was living as a dead woman as well.

Her mobile rang. She swallowed, wiping away her tears and then walked out of the bathroom, Toby following behind her.

Unknown number. She picked it up and brought it to her ear. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was breathing deeply. She narrowed her eyes. Prank call.

"Molly…"

She recognized the voice instantly. "Charles?" There was a small muffling and more breathing. "Charles, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

"Molly, I've been arrested."

* * *

_Special thanks to Saourise for reminding me to shut up and just write without stupid explanations. You are all smart readers and don't need to listen to my ramblings. Apologies! Thank you and carry on! _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**Notes at the bottom now.  
**

* * *

Molly was fuming. She burst through the doors of the police department and spotted Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan talking in a small circle. They turned their heads when they marked her grand entrance.

Molly clenched her fists and walked over. However, before she made it half way, John Watson invaded her path and halted her.

"Molly…"

"Step aside, John. I need to speak with Sherlock. I know he did this."

John nodded and put his hands up. "Molly, listen to me," he whispered. "It's a sensitive situation right now and you need to calm down."

Her jaw tightened. How could she be calm when Sherlock just had her boyfriend arrested?

"I understand you're upset," John said. "I am, too. But…Sherlock, he's been having a rough time, I can tell, he's been taking drugs again – look at his eyes. He's a bit high right now. Don't start an argument with him. Not now. Please."

Molly's eyes widened. Everybody knew of Sherlock's recreational activities but she was sure he'd dropped them a long time ago. She didn't care though, she was beyond upset. She pushed her lips together and even if she was feeling the wrath of the gods, her face looked like an upset kitten at most.

John put his hands on Molly's shoulder to help calm her.

Sherlock, ignoring Donovan's measly argument, passed Molly an undetectable glance. She was wearing a horrible sweater which seemed two sizes too big, slacks that looked like they belonged to her grandmother, tennis shoes with mix matched socks, her new trench coat, and only one side of her hair was combed, the other side was frizzy and messy. She must've rushed out after taking a shower, didn't even bother to look in the mirror. Hm, she looked like Molly from two years ago; hideously unaware of her poor choice in attire.

John was cajoling her into leaving apparently because they walked into another room to talk. Molly caught his eyes and glared fiercely. He reprimanded with his usual stoic expression.

"Molly," John breathed, closing the door to the room to give them some privacy. "I know one of the judges owes Sherlock a favour after he buried some evidence of an affair."

"What?" Molly spat. "Isn't that against the law?"

John licked his bottom lip and almost smiled. "Do you think Sherlock really cares? A judge's IOU is more important and to Sherlock, more valuable than his wife's justice. He must've cashed it in and got a warrant to search Charles's flat, a real search – with forensics and everything."

"Oh my god…" Molly bit her nails. She was calming down and her wrath was being replaced by anxiety. She didn't want poor Charles in jail. He didn't do anything bad. Did he? "What did they find?" she asked tentatively.

"Arms."

Molly froze. Blinked and shook her head. "I'm sorry, what?"

"They found guns, Molly. Specifically the same type of gun the Headshot murderer used to kill his victims." He frowned. Molly gasped at the information.

"Why does Charles's have guns, Molly? They found two. One underneath a candy drawer and another in his bedroom," he said, rubbing his forehead. "You're the closest one to Charles. Lestrade and Donovan are going to want to question you, might want to call a lawyer." He shook his head unbelievingly. "What…what do you know about this, Molly? Because honestly, it's really not looking the thing right now."

Molly swallowed. "He never told me anything about a gun. Or guns…" She blinked. "How do they know it's the same gun?"

"They don't know it's the same, just from the forensics evidence about the bullet holes, they managed to find the type of gun used. It was a glock, actually. Usually only officers have those. Common but it's still odd."

They were silent for a few minutes. Molly pestered her hands and nails like she usually did when she was nervous.

"Do you think…," John started, regretting it immediately, "he might be the killer?"

Molly bit her lip and didn't say anything. Once upon a time, she dated London's most notorious criminal, James Moriarty. Although it was only three dates, and she was the one to end it, she always knew she was the type of girl weird creeps and psychopaths usually picked up and found attractive. She was naïve, innocent, and optimistic to a fault. Perfect target.

Oh, but she wanted to believe that Charles wasn't one of them. She wanted just one good thing, just one. Was it too much to ask?

**###**

After the right amount of persuasion and compliments to Lestrade, the detective inspector let Sherlock talk to Charles.

"Well you have me in cuffs now, Sherlock." Charles was in a chair, his wrists restrained with metal handcuffs. His fingers were laced together on top of a table with a carefully guarded expression alit his eyes.

"Right where I want you," Sherlock said, entering the room and standing before him. Lestrade was surely watching them from the mirrored room. Donovan was out questioning Molly, no less.

Charles forced a smile. "If you wanted foreplay, could've just asked. No need to drag a third party into our passionate affairs," he joked. His humour was a clever mask for the true anger that lied underneath his skin.

"Why do you have guns, Charles?"

"Protection."

"Or for murder." Sherlock lifted his brow.

"I am not. The murderer," Charles hissed. "I am not!"

"Your gun matches."

"You don't have enough evidence to keep me here for long," Charles reminded him. "I've got my lawyer too, you know? I'm getting out."

"Shut up. I don't need to keep you here for long."

Charles stared at him and then smiled knowingly. "Ahhhh, right. You, king of deductions and manipulations, you think you can get me to spill the beans?" he asked, tilting his head. "Please, do try. My can is empty."

"Do you even have any idea of the charges you're going to face for illegal possession of weaponry?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Hello. Lawyer. Of course I _know_ - _my_ lawyer is coming with my permit. Was running a little late. Don't worry, things will get sorted out."

Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eyes as he paced back and forth across the room. "Consulting detective, inter-media connections, pretty and good-looking with the respect of friends and workforce – Charles you are the golden haired boy they always dreamed of. Don't you think your act is a little too perfect to be real?"

He smiled. "Only you think I'm perfect."

Sherlock paused and smirked. "Perfection only occurs in the realms of dreams, Charles. Not real life. That's why you're not who you say you are. So yes, I might see you as perfect and I realise that it doesn't exist, so neither do you," he concluded.

"I'm not perfect," he muttered. "Though I'm flattered you think so."

Sherlock stopped in front of him, his hands in his coat pocket. "Tell me, why are you here? What do you want?"

Charles regarded him curiously for a moment. "I'm not here to take your place, Sherlock. If that's what you think."

He arched a brow at his response but otherwise continued his passive glare.

"You're childish, ridiculous if you think the world revolves around you. I'm here out of pure luck, really. I met Sebastian out of coincidence, Lestrade afterward. I'm a brilliant man, Sherlock – you're forgetting that. And unlike you, I don't always get bored, I can be human. Sometimes I like to sit at home and watch movies with Molly, eat popcorn. I don't need cases so if you want me off them, just say so. I'm not going to dance around you anymore. It's tedious and frankly, getting quite boring," he growled.

Sherlock tried to read him, detect the lies. He couldn't, they were very well hidden.

"Those guns are for my protection, I promise. Picking up this job, I've been the interest of many bad people – they're after my head. Don't know how you found it so much fun living with a death note on your back. I assure you, I don't hold the same leisure interests as you. But if they decided to come for me, I would've had myself prepared. For my sake and Molly's - I wasn't going to let anyone hurt her."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, you _almost_ had me," he said sarcastically. "You really think I'm going to believe you're on the side of the angels?" Moriarty was the demon, Charles the angel and what was Sherlock, the neutral entity in-between? Was his life a novel? He laughed.

The door suddenly opened and Lestrade stepped him, a look of horror about his face.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Murder."

Sherlock eyes opened wide. Murder? Another? Impossible. He flashed Charles a look who was but stunned nonetheless.

"Not too far from here. It's Headshot, Sherlock. No doubt about it." He stared at the both of them, more apologetically towards Charles. "Are you coming?" he asked him.

"No." Sherlock glared at Charles. He could have a partner. He need time to think. To really _think_. "Not necessary. Headshot isn't going to leave clues, not point in going. Besides, I can deduce more if I think."

"You can't stay in here with him," Lestrade added. "His lawyer just came."

Sherlock was angry. This wasn't going as planned, there wasn't supposed to be a murder - not when Charles was under confinement. This ruined everything. "Damn it!" he shouted.

**###**

After being questioned by Donovan, Molly was able to see Charles for a few minutes. Lestrade let her after Sherlock and his lawyer talked to him. She only had five minutes though.

"Charlie…"

Charles frowned when Molly walked in and sat down across from him. She held his hand and he held hers tightly.

"No worries, kitten. They can't keep me here for long. Sherlock's magic isn't everlasting," he consoled.

She bit her lip. "Right…"

They were quiet for a few seconds and then she asked. "Why do you have the guns? Why didn't you tell me about them? How did you get them?"

"Protection, Molly. I was going to tell you," he murmured, playing with her hands. "Forgive me. I didn't think Sherlock would bust in while I was showering with a squad from the police department and go through my underwear drawers for forensic evidence." He lifted his brows and smiled slightly.

Molly frowned but tried hard to smile. She failed despite her efforts. Her eyes watched Charles as he stroked her hand so lovingly. How can this man be bad? He couldn't it wasn't him, she told herself. Biting her bottom lip, her mind wandered back to Moriarty. She trusted him too. Had she made another mistake? No! She hadn't. Charles was a good, good man. She smiled at him.

"At least they didn't touch our photos," he added, forcing a grin. "Precious things, they are." He looked at her, almost longingly.

She chuckled slightly. "I'm sorry about him," she apologized. "Sherlock."

A small smile carved itself onto his lips. "You've nothing to apologize for, love."

**###**

Sherlock stormed out of the station and onto the street. He was waiting for a cab when he spotted Molly. Oh, _fantastic_.

She stomped to him. She still hadn't mended the other half of her messy hair. In the dark, she looked like a mad woman from a horror film.

"Sherlock!" she scolded. "How-"

"Dare I put innocent Charles behind bars?" he interjected. "Oh please, did you see how cosy he was in there? Nothing to fear because he had a henchman doing the dirty work all along," he muttered mostly to himself. He looked around and then lifted his hand to a nearby patrolling cab.

"H-he doesn't have any connections," she shouted. "You." She inhaled deeply. "You have no evidence! You have nothing to hold him to what you're trying to make him become!"

Sherlock ignored her and got into the cab. Molly wasn't having any of it. She grabbed the door and yanked it out of his grasp and got in next to him.

"What the hell are you doing!" he shouted.

"We are going to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about."

"Oh, we've got loads to talk about, Sherlock! The list just goes on and on."

"What. Ever." Sherlock groaned exaggeratedly.

"Ummm…" the cabbie turned around. "Where…what…"

"221b Baker Street, please," Molly said.

"Tell her to get out!" Sherlock commanded the driver.

"Excuse me?" Molly called out.

"If you want to leave, you can get out and find another cab, sir," the cabbie said. "It's not nice to leave a pretty lady out in the cold like this."

Sherlock slowly turned his wide frosty eyes towards the man. "Pretty? She's atrocious! A witch, a demon. Get out, Molly!"

"I'm not going anywhere so stop it!" she argued stubbornly.

They continued bickering for another few minutes until the cabbie got annoyed and kicked them _both_ out.

Sherlock and Molly stood on the corner of the empty street as the driver pulled away, leaving them behind.

"Well, thanks a lot," Sherlock said bitterly.

Molly clenched her fists. She turned to him. "I heard about the other murder."

"Molly, I already told you, you don't count anymore," he repeated the words carefully without looking at her. "Therefore, your arguments are invalid and meaningless. I won't listen to them."

She pressed her lips together obstinately. She knew what he had said, she hadn't _forgotten_ it. With another brave breath, she spoke. "Fine. I get it, I don't count but I-I think I understand why you're doing all this."

He didn't say anything. He turned around and began walking away.

Molly was relentless, she followed behind him. "You think you're incapable of love, right? You said it was a pointless emotion."

"Oh, please spare me," he begged theatrically. Not another Molly lecture on emotional importance, fairies and biscuits.

She continued. "You can love, Sherlock. You're already loving."

He halted and turned around. She collided into his chest and he took a step away from her quickly as if touching her was poisonous. "Loving? I think you're the last person to give any sort of advice on the matter, Molly. Seeing as you dated a criminal more than once. Pray tell, what makes you love psychopaths so much? Are they fun? Do you get off on putting yourself in a masochistic relationship?" He cocked his head curiously.

Her mouth widened but after this morning's remarks, he couldn't hurt her any deeper. "Charles is not a criminal. He was protecting himself and me – that's why he had the guns. Pure coincidence they were the same brand as the killers."

"I don't believe in coincidences."

She ignored him and his comment on psychopaths.

Sherlock smirked. "Didn't I tell you never to date anyone, Molly? Spare us, all your boyfriends end up being some type of mental criminal." He rolled his eyes. "You're not meant for love or domestic bliss. I suggest taking your cat as your only partner of interest. Molly the lonely cat lady has a nice ring," he added.

She frowned. "Now you're resorting to name calling?" she asked. "Please, Sherlock. You can't hurt me anymore. You've slashed deep enough, the last thing you can do is kill me."

He lifted his chin and squinted, leaning away from her. His eyes roamed hers searchingly.

"You love people, Sherlock," she said.

"I don't."

"You do. You love London, so you came back."

"London is not_ people_. It's my home," he replied instantly.

"You love John, Mrs. Hudson, hell I'm half sure you love Lestrade as well."

He rolled his eyes.

She watched him act like a teenager who thought love was stupid and silly. "You love them like my father, actually."

"Molly," he admonished, almost pleadingly. If there was a lord, he would show him mercy. Now.

She swallowed and continued. "He loved me, and mom and my cousins too. We were actually all really close. But, when any of us girls bought a boy home – or even a friend – he'd become very…protective," she said. "He'd want to check everything out and sometimes, he was convinced they were bad kids even when they weren't and didn't let us play with them or go out with them."

"Piss poor job he did, giving you the green light on Moriarty."

"Sherlock, he's been dead."

He closed his mouth, an annoying pang of guilt hitting him somewhere. "Oh."

She looked at the ground. "I get it. Everyone is letting Charles in and you don't trust him. I'm so sorry…that you don't trust him and I'm sorry for letting things get out of hand. I should've been more careful with him. I didn't want to put him in danger, nor upset you. I j-just…I didn't know when you'd come back or if you'd come back or anything. It was all very confusing and I liked him and…and…." She ran her hands through her long hair.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. God, if he wanted to leave, he couldn't, even he wasn't rude enough to leave a crying girl on the streets. "Molly."

She did something then. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged Sherlock tightly.

He stiffened immediately. "_Molly!"_

She rested her head against the fabric of his coat over his chest, dismissing his protest. "I'm sorry I tried to turn him into you, Sherlock. I-I dunno why I did it," she whimpered, doing her best to hold back her tears. "I _can't_ believe what I've done to him. I made him like this, encouraged him to be you and now you think he's a murderer and he's not and I…I just liked you, Sherlock. I'm sorry," she cried, her voice breaking. "Oh, god – I'm sorry to the both of you."

Sherlock was uncomfortable in her grappling bear-like hug. He couldn't move his arms and she wasn't letting go. God, this was the worst day of his life! Charles was going to be released as a free man, Molly was being emotional, John – that arse – ran away with Lestrade to the new murder scene and there was not. One. Damn. Taxi!

"Alright, Molly. Don't be pompous and take all the blame. You're not exactly the centre of this problem." Sherlock grunted, "Let me go. Now. If you please."

She sniffed and freed him of her hold. "Sorry…"

Sherlock straightened his jacket and collar. "Right, well. Its fine," he sighed and turned towards the street. Thank the heavens, a taxi. He waved and vehicle stopped. Sherlock opened the door and stepped aside for Molly. She looked at him confused. "Didn't you say we had things to talk about it? I'd rather not do it on the street."

"I thought we…were done." She was wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

"You mentioned a very long list of things."

She blinked. "But Charles." She pointed over her shoulder. "I should stay with him."

"He'll be busy with his lawyer. Two hours at least. I'll call a cab for you from my flat, you can leave then," he said. "No? Then, I'll go."

"Wait!" She took a deep breath and then ducked her head and climbed into the cab.

Sherlock took a step towards the cab and before he climbed in, he looked to his right where Charles was standing outside the station's front entrance. His lawyer was talking next to him, holding some papers. Charles was rubbing his wrists, his beady green eyes piercing him. Sherlock showed him a one-sided smile and then got into the cab, closing the door and driving away.

**###**

Lestrade sighed, putting his hands on his hips as he regarded the dead body that lay motionless on the carpet of Gregory Green's flat.

"What do we know about him?" he asked Donovan.

John had his arms crossed and shook his head pensively.

"Some type of I.T. tech, detective inspector," replied Donovan.

Anderson was kneeling near the dead body and looked up. "Maybe an hour or so. Fresh wound. Same as the others, nothing new."

John rubbed his bottom lip. "This means the killer's nearby then, right? I mean, shouldn't we look?"

"For what?" Lestrade asked, annoyed and angry. "We have no clues! We have nothing!" He had just had to arrest one of his best mates and now another murder. The department was going to be furious if he couldn't solve this in time. One more life and Lestrade would get the cut.

"Greg…" John frowned.

He shook his head and turned away. "Forget it." Running a hand through his hair, he found his pockets vibrating. Text = Sherlock. He opened the message, read and replied. He put the phone back into his pocket, expecting nothing more but it buzzed again. He groaned and opened the message. He stared at it.

"Shit."

**###**

Sherlock tossed his coat and scarf onto his sofa and then walked over to his armchair and fell into it. Oh, this day was terrible.

Molly walked in timidly and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror's reflection. "Oh, god! I look hideous!" She flustered while clawing the left side of her hair, aiming for symmetry.

"I told you. Why, oh why, that cabbie said you were pretty I'll never know," he mused.

She ignored him. Seemed to be the only thing she could do every time he passed a comment like that. Finally obtaining some sort of equality with her hair, she faced Sherlock, wondering what else she could possibly say to him.

"Can you make me coffee?" he asked before she opened her mouth.

"W-what?"

"Mrs Hudson left later this evening to meet with her nieces."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Two days ago."

Molly gasped and then quickly made her way into the kitchen. "How the hell do you survive without putting food inside that belly of yours?" She remembered the Chinese takeout she cleaned up earlier. It was two days old? Disgusting.

"Solid food slows me down. Caffeine keeps me going," Sherlock muttered. He sat in his chair, facing away from her as he steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes. He needed to think. Really think.

He needed to enter his mind palace.

"Do you want a sandwich or something?" Molly asked, irritating him. Her voice broke his fluid concentration. He only brought her here to spite Charles and was all for kicking her out but he didn't for some reason. Molly didn't count anymore and he didn't _have_ to care about her feelings.

Argh, Molly business was too complex. He set it aside into another folder and concentrated on the task at hand.

She opened the cabinet and found a box of pasta. "Or if you want something more filling…"

"Yes, whatever takes longer," Sherlock replied on edge.

"Pasta then…" Molly murmured and turned on the stove. "Sherlo-"

"Molly, do me a favour and be quiet for at least half an hour. I'm thinking."

She looked across the table at Sherlock who had his hands at his temples now, his eyes closed and his look of concentration sketched onto the contours of his face. "Um…okay." She waited for the water to boil.

Sherlock's vision was black at first. Slowly, he drowned out the sound of Molly clanking in the kitchen and replaced it by symphonic music. Bach. Entering his mind palace, he could see his endless collection of information slowly produce itself.

_Loading…_

He opened up all files pertaining to Charles: mental Images, conversations, videos, audio, items, locations and anything else with Charles written on it. Then he opened up his untitled file of the night of his attack. The resolution was terrible, dithered, but it would have to do. He compared the two. The attacker and Charles.

Bringing forward their cut-outs, he overlapped them. There was a difference in their height, for some reason the attacker was actually shorter. So they were different people. No surprise there. He put aside the attacker and Charles on each side of his vision and then began browsing for connections, anything out of the ordinary.

Sherlock replayed clips, starting with the first time he met Charles. Instead of focusing on Molly, he cropped her out and paid attention to Charles's expression. In .8 seconds, his face registered a hint of surprise.

He _knew_.

Charles knew him long before that day. Ohhhh, he recognized him and he lied about not knowing him. Why? Why would he do that? He screen capped the image, set it aside and opened up more files. Oh, things were getting interesting in the mind palace. He was seeing things he didn't even pick up before.

Next on his list was the murder at Shad Sanderson, nothing interesting picked up there, moving on. Sherlock browsed and zoomed in and out, cropping and cutting until he reached Lestrade's party. He played it over and caught something. Jane Wilmont bumped into Charles and Molly on her way out. There was an exchange. Down below, their hands had brushed – a message was sent! Oh, Jane! JANE! She was in on this – oh playing the part of the troubled girl who was soon to get a bullet in her head. It was a perfectly cliché cover, one he overlooked - brilliant!

But how? How did it all connect? What? Why? Questions began pouring in. He needed to match them with answers. He needed more data.

He brought up an image of Jane's body and then the attacker. Overlap. And Match. She attacked him, dressed as a man. Clever play, really, this entire time he thought the killer was a male. Jane was being watched by the police, knew she had to be at home all day on the fourth day of the murder after getting information, so she changed it up, killed on the third day, creating confusion and also anxiety. But why would she kill her friends? They travelled to America together – all of them for some charity event…

He dug deeper, expanding his search. Archives, missing links, everything. What if it wasn't a charity event? A cover, perhaps? The dates!

He searched for dates of their 'charity event' and connections with anything else specific and then somewhere in the back of his palace, something came forward and stopped in front of him. Blurred, it was newspaper heading with Wednesday, October 7th, 2012 – amulet stolen from museum.

Sherlock's eyes flashed open and he found Molly sitting in front of him with a plate of pasta in her hand. She was looking at him oddly. Molly found it insane how Sherlock behaved while 'thinking'. He had been moving his hands around, his head going left and right with his eyes closed. It was weird but she didn't disturb him.

"It's been forty five minutes, Sherlock. Pasta is kind of cold…" she said. "Do you still want it?"

She had been quiet as a mouse the whole time. Sherlock expected no less. Erratically, Sherlock jumped off the armchair and looked around his flat. "Trash it, don't need it."

"Trash?"

Sherlock filed through his desk and shelves. Everything was clean and not organized. Out of place! "Molly, where did you put my newspapers?"

"I threw them away."

"What?" he turned around and glared.

She flinched ever so slightly. "Is there a newspaper you need?"

"Nevermind. I'll find it online." He booted up the laptop.

"Sherlock, did you figure something out?"

"More than that."

"You solved the case?"

"Not all of it."

"Do you know who it is? The killer?"

"Yes."

She stood silently. "And?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. This wasn't good news for Molly. She became antsy but didn't pressure him. He was in his _zone _and quite frankly, she wasn't sure she would be ready for the answer. If Sherlock found Charles guilty, Molly would be devastated.

Sherlock typed skilfully and brought up the articles pertaining to the amulet. It was Wadjet, or 'whole one', an Egyptian symbol of the eye of Horus or Ra. Quite valuable. The amulet was stolen two months ago from an American museum. Jane and her friends must've all been in on it, something had happened and she was killing them off until one of them brought it forward.

Ohhhhhh! It was all making sense now. Well, a little. He was still uncertain of her true motives. One killing their friends never meant anything good. He could never killer John so this woman was clearly more insane in ways he couldn't even imagine. She was dangerous.

He closed his eyes, pacing back and forth through the room. In his mind, he brought up the list of fatalities.

First victim: Sarah O'Conner – history professor. This would be the woman who knew most about this 'amulet'.

Second victim: William Reed – A lawyer, he had his perks and knowledge of what and what not they could get away with.

Third victim: Peter Fitzgerald – employee at Shad Sanderson, financial. Good with money.

Fourth victim: Jacob Park – Freelance journalist, currently had been working on a museum piece – amulet. Got information, got people to talk.

Fifth victim: …

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled out his mobile and texted Lestrade.

_To: Lestrade_

_Who is the fifth victim? _

_SH_

_ #_

_From: Lestrade_

_Gregory Green. I.T. Tech. Got anything? _

Sherlock paused. Someone good with computers. And then there was Jane Wilmont. Based on his deductions, she was rather skilled – a fighter, the strong one – she did the leg work. It was like a team, a band of criminals stealing precious articles and selling them to clients: White collar art thieves. Charles was a family lawyer, dealt with wills and all that rubbish, what did he have in common? Where was his niche? Sherlock texted Lestrade back.

_To: Lestrade_

_I know who Headshot is._

_Jane's loft. Now._

_SH  
_

* * *

_**Note:** We **were** reaching the end of this until Howlynn so graciously gave me a one up and told me I still had things to get done. She's right. __(Can I extend this to fifteen chapters maybe?)_ Oh, what a great reviewer and a writer. I suggest for everyone to pay her page a visit and see if you're interested in her works. She's a wonderful writer. Additionally, Let me know if something is amiss in this...I'm a bit paranoid about the case. Thank you all for reading and commenting and reviewing and just everything!  



	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

He took another swig of his liquor. Another dreadful night, he thought. His life was miserable, a poor excuse of one – even for a fallen man. He pulled himself back in his armchair, dropping his shoulders. The shabby motel room smelled like rags and there were countless stains on the floor. He wasn't used to this…poor man's life. Disgusting. Vile. Depressing. All of it.

Next to him on a coffee table, there was a laptop and a box of cigarettes with just one cigarette remaining inside. He pulled it out and lit it up then opened his laptop, booting it up and opening his internet browser. On the front page, there was an article uploaded just a few minutes ago pertaining to a young detective/lawyer who was brought into custody for being suspected of murder. He had heard of these murders briefly – something about headshots, one hit knockouts. It wasn't interesting. Nothing was interesting anymore – not since his death. All he did was sit, drink, eat, sleep and repeat.

But something caught the man's eyes in the online article. Just eight letters.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes? He was alive? He browsed the internet and found this to be true.

"Good…lord." The man crushed his cigarette and read eagerly, learning when the great Sherlock Holmes made his return, what he had been doing this whole time, and wondering where he had gone, how he has faked his death. Questions poured into his mind like a waterfall and he set his laptop to the side, his eyes grown wide, his teeth gritted and his jaw hard. The man was furious but kept himself from smashing a mirror.

This was good news in one way more than a few. This gave him a chance to set the record straight.

Getting up, he sauntered over to his desk and began packing papers, wallet, money, and documents into a briefcase as ideas poured into his mind. He was calm, and he would stay calm. His anger would not get the best of him – not this time. That's not what he would've wanted. He needed a plan and then…he would burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. Burn it through and through until it was nothing but ash.

**###**

Sherlock and Molly were in the taxi, heading towards Jane's apartment. Molly wasn't sure why Sherlock dragged her along. She offered to stay out of his way and go home but he wouldn't let her. Sherlock was quiet on his side of the seat, looking out the window and occasionally playing with his phone. His leg was bouncing up and down and that meant that he was impatient. Something was amiss.

"Sherlock…what's going on?" she asked, worried.

"Jane."

"What about Jane?"

"She's Headshot."

Molly gasped. "Jane Wilmont?" She pondered this thought for a moment longer. "So the victim was actually the culprit?"

"Yes. Do keep up, Molly." Sherlock perked his head as they neared the building.

"And Charles?" Molly blurted. She wanted to make sure Charles was safe.

He turned his head towards her slowly, calculatedly. "I'm not sure."

The cabbie stopped and Sherlock got out faster than a jackrabbit, running towards the building, leaving Molly to pay the fare. She sent off the driver and approached the loft, watching as police vehicles surrounded the building with their blaring lights and officers set up yellow duct tape around the entrance. This didn't look good.

Sherlock pushed passed a scowling Donovan and neared the entrance with powerful long strides.

"No. No. No."

Molly was following behind him as they climbed the stairs and entered Jane's flat. "Oh!" Molly paused at the door, staring at the scene before her.

"Damn," Sherlock swore. This was a five patch problem. In the centre of the living area, Jane was laying on the floor with a nice round bullet hole through her head. Lestrade turned his head up and frowned. John was there as well, standing next to Lestrade with a look of distain. Anderson was crouching next to the body in his blue suit, glaring at Molly and Sherlock.

"Put on your suits if you're going to be in here!" Anderson shouted. "You might tamper with evidence!"

"There isn't going to be any evidence!" Sherlock snapped. He rubbed his forehead, agitated. "She was supposed to be our killer!"

"Okay, explain that bit, would you?" Lestrade demanded. "How do you know Jane's our killer and not just another victim?"

"The eye of Horus. That is what she was looking for!" Sherlock shouted. He went ahead and explained how the American museum had filed this valuable artefact missing months ago – the same time she and her team were in the country. How she murdered them all to get to it, possibly for her own selfish reasons, possibly money, revenge, could be at least seven different things, but now he would never know exactly why because she was _dead!_

Lestrade took in a deep breath. "We came as soon as you texted. She's been dead for a while."

"What time precisely?"

"We're not sure of that yet, Sherlock. Calm down."

Sherlock wouldn't _calm down_. He was close, he could see the end of this crime string and he wanted to pull the plug on it. "Where's Charles?" he asked.

"Ain't he with his lawyer?" Lestrade asked.

"Why is Charles important right now?" Anderson asked with an ugly wrinkle of his nose. Anderson didn't favour any of the detectives. They were both annoying and although Charles was nicer, he still liked being pompous the same.

"Oh! Shut your face, Anderson!" Sherlock snapped again. "I don't understand why you waste precious space on this earth with your meagre intellect!"

Anderson opened his mouth to refute but Lestrade gave him a hard glare and he closed his lips, looking down.

"Molly, call Charles right now," Sherlock ordered, pointing at her.

Molly blinked and everyone looked at her as if they just realised she had been standing at the door the whole time. "Um…okay." She fished out her phone and speed dialled Charles's hand phone. She waited for an answer but no one was picking up. "He's not answering," she whispered, suddenly fearing something had happened to him. "Oh my god, is he…is he okay?"

"Probably not," Sherlock answered instantly.

"Sherlock!" It was John. He made his way forward and put a comforting hand on Molly's shoulder, passing Sherlock his infamous 'that-wasn't-nice' look. "It's alright, Molly. Try again, see if he picks up. If not, we'll look for him. I'm sure he's fine."

Sherlock couldn't hold it in any longer. Seeing everyone comfort Molly on Charles when he shared a portion of this whole operation made his stomach quake. "Charles is part of all this," Sherlock announced.

Everyone looked at him squarely. "W-What do you mean?" Lestrade asked, narrowing his eyes with disbelief. "Didn't we already go through this? He had a permit for his gun, he was working serious cases. It was self-defense, I mean, even John has a gun and we didn't bust him!" Lestrade extended his hand towards the army doctor.

"That's _impossible_ Sherlock," John hissed through his teeth, begging him to stop his madness. "Please just shut up."

Sherlock glared at him. He still hadn't spoken to John since their argument. "Well _John_, I'll let you know I didn't just pull this one out of my arse based on intuition." He turned to Lestrade. "At your birthday party-"

"Anniversary," Lestrade corrected.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock waved dismissively. "It was the first instance where I found something peculiar about Charles Howard. Jane and he bumped into each other, a message was sent, a paper precisely, handed to him as she said '_excuse me_'. Do you remember that instance?"

Lestrade thought for a second. "Yes, but I didn't notice any message, or paper..."

"That's because you lack observation. That night, I talked to Molly and it took her nearly twenty minutes to find Charles who was near the back of the building. I had originally thought he was my attacker but that wasn't the case."

"You were attacked?"

"I'll explain the details later. It was Jane. She broke into my flat and tried to send a warning. She left blood that belonged to Gregory Green on my wall. I'm now eighty-seven per cent sure that Charles was also involved due their interaction and his vast knowledge on the case so far. He must've been trying to help her, help himself find this artefact."

"But how?" Lestrade put his hands on his hips.

"I _can_ tell you. Once we find Charles." Sherlock flashed Molly a look who was staring at him with an expression he couldn't label. Hurt? No. Anger? No. Sadness? No. Confusion? No. All of the above? Maybe…

**###**

Molly's hands shook as she punched her birthday's code into the keypad to open Charles's apartment. _Please let Sherlock be wrong. Please…_ She held onto hope that she hadn't made a mistake on Charles's account. That this was all some sort of twisted misunderstanding. Oh god, if he was right and Charles was behind all this – she had literally been sleeping with the enemy and the very thought of that made her feel grotesque.

The door clicked and they all walked inside. Charles hadn't been picking up his phone for their entire drive and Molly had gotten worried. Lestrade and Sherlock quickly scanned the kitchen and peeked into their bedroom. John stayed with Molly, doing his best to comfort her, bless him.

"He's not in the bedroom," Lestrade called.

Sherlock was still looking, searching under the bed, in the closet, in the drawers. Everywhere – even through her dirty laundry and underwear drawer. Not giving a care in the world.

"Try calling him again," John said gently.

"Okay…" And she did. This time, there was faint ringing. They all went quiet and followed the sound into the living room. John flicked on the lights and there, lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, was a sleeping Charles. He was in his suit; it was bit ruffled and messy. There was a liquor bottle on the table. Next to the bottle, however, were two very important things.

"Oh, my god." Molly whimpered and stumbled back, bumping into Lestrade who caught her by the shoulders.

There was a black gun sitting left of the bottle and on the right, was an artefact – the eye of Horus broken in two halves.

Lestrade had a hurt look on his face as he looked down at his drunken good mate with evidence right next to him. "Tell me I'm not seeing this."

Charles groaned, shifting on the sofa and then blinked awake, squinting at the white fluorescent lights. He then realised four people were staring down at him and gave them a confused look. "What the hell are you doing in here? Molly? What's going on?"

Lestrade stepped forward. "Charles…bloody hell have you been up to?"

Charles narrowed his eyes and then groaned, putting a hand over his head. "Don't talk so loud, Inspector…"

Sherlock's eyes continued to roam the area. "Cold blooded _drunken_ murder is it, Charles? I wouldn't think you to get so messy." His blue irises landed on him.

"What?" Charles looked at him harshly. "Are we still on that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the gun and broken artefact. "You obviously had one drink too many seeing as you can't remember what you've done."

Charles looked to his right and his eyes widened. It took him a second longer than necessary to respond. Charles had _thought_. "What…the hell is this?"

"Evidence," Sherlock said triumphantly.

Charles shook his head madly. "No, this is not happening. This…this isn't mine!" he defended himself.

Sherlock had seen this act before: Moriarty, the children's actor. He had once feigned being innocent, and look where that got him. Sherlock nearly laughed out loud at the lack of creativity.

Lestrade reached behind him and pulled out handcuffs. "Charles Howard, you are under arrest for the suspected murder of one Jane Wilmont." His expression was stoic as he spoke.

Charles looked at everyone madly. "No!" He observed his living area, the gun and the Eye of Horus. "I've been framed, you have to believe me! I would never be so careless if I was going to murder someone! You all…you all know me!" He glared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, you..."

"Probably not one of the best things to say at the moment," Sherlock mused. "People make all sorts of mistakes under the influence. You are no exception."

"Molly!" Charles hissed as Lestrade cuffed him. "This is not what it seems! Please, don't look at me like that. Jesus, Molly!" He almost seemed to be scolding her. "Fuck!"

Sherlock disregarded everything he was saying. Everything that made it look like what he spoke was valid truth - because he had made that mistake with Irene Adler before and Sherlock never repeated his mistakes.

Molly recoiled when Charles attempted to approach her. Lestrade held him back. She didn't want to see this. She closed her eyes and turned half way around, biting her nail and taking deep, slow breathes. Once the door closed and Sherlock and Lestrade left with Charles under custody and the evidence bagged, John delicately put his arms around Molly and let her silently cry into his shoulder.

"I'm…I'm going to dirty your jumper," she said between her sobs.

"It's alright, Molly." He didn't say anything more. There was really nothing he could say that would make the girl feel better about what had just taken place.

Sherlock opened the front door and stepped back into the living room to talk to John. He paused when he found him comforting Molly. John's eyes rose and met Sherlock with another look he couldn't register. Anger? What did John have to be angry about? Sherlock had just put a murderer in jail. Charles had turned on Jane, shot and killed her and retrieved the Eye of Horus for himself while half drunk – and putting him behind bars, for real this time, was a bad thing? Oh, the sentiment would be their deaths.

Sherlock could hear Molly's snivels from his side, her muffled cries and the rage behind her voice. He swallowed, blinking. He had hurt her by unveiling the truth? He wasn't sure what to feel about this – normally it didn't matter because his friends were never on this side of the playing field. Sherlock never had to _care_ about any of the villain's _friends_. This was new territory for him, hurting everyone because there was one rotten apple. Unfortunately, however, there was little he could do to mend their pain. They would all just have to get over it. He had been right.

**###**

Anderson was in charge of examining the body of Jane Wilmont. Everyone always thought Anderson was stupid and didn't know how to do his job but the truth was, Anderson could be quite witty when he wanted to be. He just had a terrible, nasty, annoying personality that degraded everyone's opinion of him. But Anderson believed that Anderson was great.

As he worked the post-mortem, there was something quite riveting he found. He had been assigned on the Headshot case and he knew the killer's tactics well. He knew the exact angle the bullets tended to curve into the skull, he knew the way the crime scene was laid out and he knew that this killer, this _Jane_, was brilliant in her work. Not that he endorsed any kind of vile behaviour such as murdering your best friends for materials but you know, as a morbid sense of 'art', he found it amazing. However, Charles, who apparently shot and killed Jane Wilmont, must've been more than just an artist because the way this bullet penetrated her skull and the precision and skill it took to get this 'clean' of a shot was somewhat unworldly. It was perfection.

Anderson didn't think Charles was _that_ perfect. What kind of lawyer had such amazing skills in shooting? Not many. And Charles was apparently drunk at the time but there had been rumour that he was just faking it. Charles wasn't just a lawyer. He was an art thief with such a strong and purely clean background that even Sherlock had a hard time putting the criminal behind bars.

Yet Anderson had his doubts, so he scanned the body for more clues. And interestingly enough, Anderson actually found something…

**###**

John was sitting in Lestrade's office. He rubbed his eyes. They were watering, red, and stinging from staying up late and he was just ready to go to home, to his wife, and sleep in his bed and forget this day had ever happened.

"Coffee."

John looked up. It was Sherlock, holding two cups of freshly brewed coffee from a small shop across the street. Sherlock didn't normally enjoy drinking the instant. He accepted his proffer and looked into the slit on the top. "You didn't drug it did you? I'm not going to imagine a glowing dog trying to attack me, am I?"

"You can relax, the nightmare is over." Sherlock took a steady sip and eyed him with his calculative look. "I didn't do anything to your coffee so please."

John sipped. Just like he liked it, no sugar. He smiled. So Sherlock still remembered what type of coffee he liked? "Look, Sherlock…"

"I know what you're going to say."

"You do?"

"Sorry for doubting you, Sherlock."

"Well, um…yes." John frowned and sighed heavily. "You were right, Sherlock. As always…I…I'm sorry."

"No need for apologies, John."

"What evidence did they find?"

"His fingerprints are all over the gun and Eye," Sherlock said. "However his story is still under contemplation. Golden boy has many strings he can still pull. They've talked to his good friend the lawyer, he said they had gone out to drink and talk about his position when Charles took one glass too many – threw some sort of fit and then stormed off without him. There is a window of one hour between then and then which allows him to be a prime suspect for the murder." Sherlock looked at him squarely. "He must've gotten impatient after his arrest. He wasn't his usual calm and collective self when I talked to him. There was something much more wild behind his eyes."

"No one can be calm and collected when talking to you."

"You can," Sherlock answered. "Well, most of the time."

John bit back a smile and sipped his drink. "I still can't believe it. I mean, I've known the guy for six months…half a year, Sherlock! He and Molly were…so close. Gosh, I feel so terrible for her."

"Hm, yes…" Sherlock muttered, holding his cup to his lips. "Is she…?"

"I dropped her off at home."

"Her flat?"

"No, she's with Mary. I don't think she'd want to sleep alone today so she's camping out with us. Poor thing doesn't have anyone else." John turned his torso towards Sherlock. "You know, she put all of her time, effort, and love into Charles and he turns out to be this arsehole like Moriarty and I just feel so sorry for her."

"Don't be," Sherlock said. "She's a grown woman and she makes her own decisions. Molly is just a horrible people-person and should never be allowed to date anyone."

John narrowed his eyes.

"What?"

"Seriously? That is possibly the worst thing you've ever said."

"Worst? I think I've said much worse." Sherlock reviewed John's unchanging look of disapproval and groaned. "Oh, come on, John! You've seen her ex-boyfriends. They're all mental."

"That doesn't mean she shouldn't be allowed to love someone. She had the right to find someone who makes her generally happy and you should never say that to her."

"A little late for that."

John winched and rubbed his forehead. "You're a bastard."

He shrugged passively. "She can 'like' from a distance. I think that's safe for the rest of humanity, don't you think?"

The office door opened and Lestrade stepped in. Based on his expression, Sherlock deduced he had news for them. Important news. "Can I talk to Charles now?" he asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You put him behind bars and exposed him as a criminal, remember? I don't think he wants to have a tea party with you right now. Anyway, this case has gotten huge and he's got himself a new defence attorney. Not taking any visitors at the moment."

Sherlock pressed his lips together in anger and disappointment. "What else. You have something to say which is inherently important."

"Anderson."

Sherlock squinted disgustedly. "Anderson is important?"

"He found something while examining Jane Wilmont's body."

John and Sherlock passed each other a short-lived glance. "And?"

"It's just about the last evidence we need to lock him up despite his story," Lestrade answered. "There was hair. DNA evidence. Ran the test – it's a match." Lestrade looked pained. "He played us all along. Charles _is_ Jane's killer."

Sherlock smiled and sipped his drink. "Excellent."

**###**

Molly smiled at Charles. He smiled back. There was no sound, the room was empty and the sun was shining through the windows but she couldn't feel anything. She couldn't feel the warmth of the rays as they casted themselves over her skin. Charles pushed her hair back behind her eyes. There was a look of affection behind his green eyes. It was serene and he was beautiful and the white colourless room made him glow as if he was divine.

He spoke her name but it was merely a very faint echo. She called his name, her lips moving slowly but again, she couldn't hear her own voice.

Charles dropped his hand and tilted his head, stilling looking at her as if she was the most beautiful creature he had ever witnessed. Then he raised his left hand. This hand had a gun and he pointed it directly at her. Molly's eyes widened as the barrel pressed against the space between her eyebrows.

"Sorry, love." He pulled back the trigger and smiled at her, still with adoration, and then shot.

Molly screamed, awaking in a panic. She bolted upright in her bed, her sheets drenched in her sweat and tangled around her legs. Her chest heaved up and down and Molly was lost, distorted and confused for a few moments before she realised it was all just a horrible nightmare. She fell back into her pillows, pulling the duvet up her to her chin and shutting her eyes forcibly. Her body was drained, tired and she hadn't had one peaceful night's rest ever since Charles was put behind bars last week.

She reached over and turned on her lights and then stayed still. She had never been afraid of the dark until now.

**###**

Sherlock sat his legs crossed, his back against the small chair, and his hands in the pockets of his coat. There was a smile playing effectively on his lips as he regarded Charles on the other end of the table. He was at the prison, Charles's trail still awaited and there was little he could do to prove his pretend innocence.

"Not talking to me now?" Sherlock asked.

Charles glared at him, his jaw tight. Yes, he was angry and he wasn't voicing any opinion of it. From the looks of his eyebrows that were fighting to stay together, Charles was biding the urge to launch over and rip his head off. Not that Sherlock would discourage such behaviour, by all means, he could use a fight. He'd wanted to punch this idiot in the face since first deductions.

But the guards were watching, six of them in this very room, two on the other side of each of the exits and they were all armed.

Sherlock displayed a one sided smile. "Come on, now. You have nothing else to lose, might as well tell me why you wanted the Eye of Horus so badly. What was so special about it? Why is it broken? What kind of operation are you running?"

"I. Am. Innocent."

Sherlock arched his brow and tilted his head to another angle, watching Charles's sincerity. He was so good at acting – he could make anyone believe anything if he really wanted to. Even Sherlock passed a fleeting doubt but he regained his pose. Charles was a killer, had been since the very beginning and anyone who said otherwise was obviously not looking at the data.

"Keep pretending, Charles, if you really wish but I'll figure out exactly what you're up to. I don't mind," Sherlock added. "Proving you wrong is…enjoyable."

The door opened and Sherlock rolled his eyes to the side to get a view of whomever it was that entered.

Tall man, 5'8" at least. He had an edgy facial expression that was overly forced into staying calm. He was upset over something. His nails were manicured, the bottom of his lip was chewed and he had applied chopstick to mend the sting. Shaven beard, clean expensive suit, new shoes - he was dressed to impress. His hair was recently cut and his eyebrows were trimmed and based on his briefcase and posture, he was another lawyer – this was Charles's new defence attorney.

Sherlock didn't stand when he approached, led by one of the guards. The new lawyer and Charles passed each other a courtesy glance before the attorney looked down at Sherlock.

"You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, forcing a smile.

He obviously wasn't happy to see the man who put his client behind bars with a waiting death sentence. This man surely had his work cut out for him.

"The one and only," replied Sherlock. He pushed back the chair and stood fluidly in one motion. He and the new defence attorney looked at one another squarely in the eye.

He extended his hand. "My name is Sebastian Moran. I'll be representing Mr. Howard on this case."

Sherlock expression didn't waver away from the usual apathy and he shook the man's hand. "Good luck. For what it's worth." Sebastian narrowed his eyes. Sherlock turned around and made his way across the room. He wasn't allowed to continue his stay - it was one of those client confidentiality law things.

"I'll be seeing you in court, Mr. Holmes," Sebastian called.

Sherlock pushed open the doors and followed the leading guard out without replying to Moran. There was no way Charles would be proven innocent and no way would he allow him to walk free. Not this time.

* * *

**Note:** Thank you all for reading, hopefully this chapter was good. I got hit by some inspiration and finished it. Let me know if something doesn't make sense. And I know some of you are wondering where the heck all the Sherlolly is, I assure you, it's coming. Maybe even in the next chapter?


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Charles had never done anything _really_ bad. One time he got caught cheating on a test. Another day, he was given detention for starting a small food fight and during his intern days, there was a scandal that went around, causing him to lose his internship. Overall, however, Charles was never the one to actually go around and _murder_ someone.

He was in his cell, his head resting against the cold wall as he stared idly at the light bulb above. Sebastian was the only one he could trust now to get him out of this mess. This grave that Sherlock dug for him. That bastard was so convinced he was a maniac he somehow managed to put an innocent man in jail. He wondered if Sherlock was the one to plant the evidence on him. Oh, god. His tightened his jaw. No, he had come with Molly, they would've been together, he didn't have time to plant evidence and Molly was his alibi.

Molly.

The way she looked at him, it was sickening as if she hated herself more than she hated the idea of Charles as a murderer. She must be beating herself up right now, disgusted by him – would be the reason why she hadn't even come to the prison to visit him or give him a chance to explain himself. This was Moriarty all over again. His poor girl. Even locked away in this prison, he was worrying about her.

He shut his eyes and let out a deep breath. Sebastian had mentioned that if he could capture Charles's whereabouts through big brother, that perhaps there was a chance to prove his innocence after all. However, that was still a rough task but he kept hope. And if not, Charles could always just escape prison to avoid his sentence. It wasn't really that hard to do and if given the right initiative, you could bribe any human into doing a favourable task.

He would not be martyr for Sherlock.

**###**

She screamed and awoke again in another panic.

"Molly!" Mary rushed over to her on the couch where she had previously been napping. She held the girl in her hands and rocked her back and forth slightly, shushing her erratic breathing. Molly had been spending more time with Mary, she was afraid to go home after work and spent some nights over in the last week. "It's alright," Mary whispered. "I'm here. You're okay. It was just a dream."

After a few seconds, Molly breathed in and nodded, wiping away her tears. "I'm so sorry," she said.

Mary held the girl's cheeks and shook her head. "Don't be." She brushed her hair back.

"What happened?"

"You fell asleep. I wasn't going to disturb you. You look horrible. You really need some rest." Marry gave an apprehensive look. "When was the last time you actually slept a wink?"

"I try to sleep every day," Molly murmured, rubbing her eyes. "I just keep waking up."

Mary nodded. "Have you tried medications?"

Molly shook her head. "I don't like meds. My mum used to take lots of them, she had trouble sleeping, too – she died of an overdose. Oh, I'm sorry." Molly slapped her mouth. "Um, I'll be fine, though. Thank you, Mary."

She sighed heavily. "Are you going to stay for dinner?" she asked.

"I don't want to be a bother. God knows I've been reaping around here far too long."

"Don't be like that. John finally got Sherlock to come over for dinner. I haven't seen him since the party and I haven't formally met him since he made his grand return. Do you think he'll tell us how he faked his death?"

Molly swallowed. "Maybe."

**###**

Sherlock entered the spacious flat that John and Mary lived in. It was clean, very white and with very few ornaments for decoration. Most likely a new flat, Mary didn't seem like someone would spare an empty shelf. Sherlock took off his coat and set it aside, fixing his suit. He was wearing his light blue shirt with a black blazer. His usual attire. There was no need to really 'dress up' for this forced occasion.

John led him to the living area where Mary was folding a blanket. Her stomach still protruded outward. Sherlock winced, thinking a baby might just pop out right there and then if she squeezed hard enough. It was nerving and he kept staring at it.

"Oh, welcome Sherlock!" She grinned at him.

"Mary." Sherlock nodded, tearing his gaze away.

"Where's Molly?" John asked, looking around.

"She's in the kitchen. I told her to rest and I could handle the dinner but she wouldn't have it." She bit her lip. "She's still having nightmares," she said lowly.

"Nightmares?" This was news to Sherlock.

"I thought I told you?" John turned his head. "Weren't you listening?"

"Apparently I had more important things occupying my mind – such as the upcoming trail for a certain murderer," replied Sherlock curtly. His eyes went towards the hallway that led to the kitchen. "She is having nightmares? Of what?"

"What else?" John and Mary were being extra cautious – wouldn't want Molly to listen in on them gossiping about her deliriums.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was interested or not.

John continued. "She has these dreams where _he_ comes in and shoots her."

Sherlock suddenly cocked his head. _Interested._

Mary pointed to her forehead. "Right here. She wakes up screaming violently and it's just…" She shook her head. "She won't take meds, she doesn't like them-"

"Is everyone here?" Molly entered the living room holding a tray of water glasses.

"Ah, Molly!" John waved at her awkwardly.

She smiled. Obviously a compulsorily bright smile, Sherlock deduced based on the extra muscles she used to spread it across her cheeks. Her eyes weren't in it. She looked at Sherlock and then walked forward, letting everyone pick up a glass.

"I prepped the table for you, Mary."

"You shouldn't have, I could've done it. Make me feel bad, do you? You practically made tonight's dinner on your own."

Molly laughed sheepishly. "N-not really. You're with a child; I don't think you should overwork yourself."

Mary forced a smile. "I'm pregnant, not handicapped."

John gave his wife a proud grin.

After a few minutes of dreadful 'chatting', which Sherlock involuntary made himself pay attention to because John had told him to be on his best behaviour; they sat down for their 'dinner'. It was horribly mundane and boring but Sherlock kept himself occupied by observing Molly who was the most interesting person in the room with her _nightmares_.

He noticed the dark circles under her eyes, her hair which looked dead and dull with lack of colour, and the stress lines across her forehead were clearly evident. She probably had at most six to ten hours of sleep in the past week. Molly set the sliced meat onto the table and Sherlock caught a glimpse her bitten nails, signs of anxiety and fear. He looked at her lips – they were chewed and her eyes, they were fully concentrated and she was putting all her effort into every task she was doing to keep herself from thinking about anything else.

Molly sat down next to Sherlock and scooted into the table. He kept tabs on her from the corner of his eyes. She hadn't said much to him. Sherlock supposed there really wasn't much to say – he had been right about Charles all along and Molly wouldn't listen to him and now she's feeling the bite. Inwardly, he thought about her nightmares and it shouldn't have alarmed him – they were quite normal – and she didn't count so why was he worried? Why was he still thinking about her instead of eating this cooked roast beef that lay in front of him when he hadn't eaten in three days?

_File it away. _

Sherlock gathered everything he recently observed and stored into one folder that was especially reserved for anything 'Molly'. He noticed his file had grown, taking up more space. He'd have to clean it out later. Then he cut into his roast beef and ate, charmingly listening to Mary as she spoke on and on about trivial matters such as haircuts and coupons and the inflation of diaper prices. Charles was off-topic, cases were off-topic and anything Sherlock found remotely interesting was not to be brought up – as ruled by John.

_BORING! _

It wasn't long before Mary brought up his death, wanting to know how he had faked it.

Sherlock gave her a half smile. "As I've told John, a magician never reveals his secrets."

"Oh come on, it's just us!" she pressed. "I won't tell the tabloids."

"The media doesn't alarm me."

"Then what's keeping you from saying anything? Did you have help?"

He shook his head. "This is best left to your imagination, Mrs Watson."

She pouted. "You won't give me anything?"

John smiled widely. "She's right, Sherlock. I mean, think of it as our wedding gift."

Sherlock took a drink of his water and eyed them carefully. Then Molly, she was silent, chewing on her food and staring at an empty space between her fork and potatoes.

"Well," Sherlock started. "I suggest you study your perspective because once you do, you'll understand exactly how I was able to perform such an act in front of an audience."

John and Mary looked at one another in thought. "I don't get it," John said, shaking his head. "What kind of perspective?"

"Vantage point, blind spots, things like that."

"That doesn't explain much," John retorted.

"Not my fault you lack imagination."

Mary chuckled and gave a dismissive shake of her head. "Whatever! I'll have it out from you one day."

"No," John refused. "It's been a while now; I think you should really tell us how you did it, Sherlock. I'm your friend and I deserve to know."

"He's right," Molly added. "I think it's best to just say it…at least to them."

John passed Molly a look. He had been under the impression she had helped Sherlock after he mentioned her name at the gravesite when he and Sherlock first met but waved it off and hadn't put much thought into it afterward.

Sherlock had promised Molly that he wouldn't drag her into it – surely at that time she didn't care but what she had done for him was enough for her to lose her license for and more. Not that he would let that happen. Yet she had done it. For him – regardless of the rumours, she trusted him. He took another sip and smiled. "Well, if you really want to know…"

"Yes!" John put his hands together on the table. "Please enlighten us."

"Fine." He set his cup down. "Moriarty had his snipers; I knew long before what he was planning, I had decoded his plan before we found Hansel and Gretel and I knew he had three targets – only three targets, how? Because of the IOU – it was quite an elaborate message regarding the storybooks he left at the crime scene. He left clues for me to deduce and I did and I pretended that I didn't."

"But why?"

"Because, I needed that advantage. Once I reached the rooftop, I pretended to be _ordinary_, the secret 'code' never existed, that was stupid and a digression from the truth and once I played him, he was disappointed in me. He wanted me to jump, to complete his 'fairy tale' and used you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson as bait. But there was an off switch, and Moriarty had it and as long as he lived, I could get him to turn off his charade so there was no need for me to take my life. At that point, he understood this loop and took his own life by shooting himself in the mouth. Of course, I played him into committing his own suicide – sort of killing two birds with one stone. I also needed him dead, I couldn't have any witnesses and the last thing to do was to jump because without my body, without that show, the snipers would not let down and you would all be dead."

They were all quiet, listening to Sherlock with their undivided attention.

"At that point, you arrived." Sherlock looked at John with a slightly hidden sad expression, recalling the memory. "I needed to you believe I was dead – I could not bring you into the mess I was about to create and it was best to have a clean slate. Plus, people would believe_ you_." Sherlock eyed them carefully. "Do you remember me telling to stay right where you were?"

John nodded slowly. "Yeah…"

"It was not to frighten you into thinking I was going to jump - it was because where you stood was the blind spot. I asked you to turn around, asked to go back and stand a precise location behind the second building because you wouldn't be able to see the pavement in front of the hospital in which I would fall onto."

"No…" John opened his mouth and leaned back, realization coming to his face.

"At that point, it was necessary that you understood it to be real, to spread the message to let everyone know I was really dead and a fake. Then you decided to move in some futile effort to 'save me', I told you go back, stay right where you were because if you moved, my entire plan would be demolished."

John rubbed his face with his hands. "Jesus. It was just part of your plan. I was like a puppet."

"No." Sherlock gave John a knowing look. "Not all of it."

They stared at each other for a second, passing some sort of secretive message.

"I told you to keep your eyes on me, like any magician says to keep your eyes on the magic act – it is a diversion, to keep the viewers from noticing the little things."

"What little things?" Mary asked.

"There are little things that carry the act. Buses were parked out front of Bart's – to conceal. They left shortly – also a truck. Once you rounded the second building, John, to get a better look at what my state had become, a bicyclist knocked you over."

John shook his head – bewilderment on his face. "That was you?"

"Of course. Nothing was a coincidence. That was to buy time. Do you remember the red truck?"

"No. I was too busy being traumatized and getting knocked over by bicyclists!"

Sherlock snorted. "Well, the truck was equipped with materials that cushioned my fall. Once I was off it, I had to roll down. The truck left almost immediately, no one would notice that someone had just _driven off_ after someone just fell off a building in front of them. The people nearby were mostly hired actors, to enhance the believability of my death."

John sat up. "But the blood and everything."

"Blood patches – easy. The rest was quite rudimentary."

"You had no pulse!" John then pointed. "Ohhhh, you were bouncing a rubber ball in the lab that day. It's the rubber ball trick, isn't it?"

Sherlock grinned. "You think I stuffed a rubber ball into my armpit? Please. If you flex your arm at a ninety degree angle, the pulse in your wrist will take ten seconds to simply stop," he replied smugly.

John frowned. "What about the body? Jesus, I could've solved this for you if I actually thought about it….but…"

"I made sure you didn't," Sherlock replied rather strictly. "I didn't want to do any digging."

John crossed his arms across his chest. Mary was gawking at Sherlock. "And the body?" she pressed.

Sherlock turned to Molly. "I had help."

"Molly?" Mary stared at her. "John mentioned something but I…I didn't really think it was possible for you to supply a fake body for Sherlock's funeral."

Molly swallowed some of her wine and then blurted, "I'm sorry, John! I would've told you but I made a promise. It really hard to keep!"

John stared at her for a while. A bit upset but all forgiving. "I…understand, Molly. I know – it's, it's alright." He let out a deep breath. "What about the newspapers and everything…"

"Mycroft," Sherlock added. "He was in on it, as well."

John cocked his head. Something wasn't clicking. "But…he had visited you, I was there and you guys were arguing about who helped you and – Mycroft didn't know!"

"It was an act," Sherlock bemused. "To keep you from thinking he was in on it – at least until I was ready to tell you. My brother does have some sense. He helped me with a few details and curbing the media – mostly because he felt guilty over slipping over my entire life story to Moriarty. Dear brother of mine nearly aided in my assassination. The real reason he was at my flat was to tell me to meet mummy and lecture me on cleanliness and nannies. I hadn't told him it was Molly who helped me but I'm sure he's already deduced that by now."

Mary blinked and then clapped her hands. "Very clever."

Sherlock smiled at her. Maybe Mary wasn't so bad after all.

After dinner, they all had a few glasses of wine, everyone but Sherlock and Mary. He didn't indulge in any sort of alcohol. Didn't like how it messed up his mind, he wanted to be alert every moment – sharp as a pencil. Mary didn't drink for obvious reasons. Molly actually had a few extra drinks, most likely to drown the horrors of her nightmares. They also played some sort of game with chips and Sherlock won easily every time that the others gave up from aggravation and tossed the game just when it was getting fun.

The clock struck eleven when Molly decided to call it a night.

"Are you sure you don't want to just sleep over?" Mary asked.

"Oh no, I'm fine. Really," Molly said quickly. She gathered her bag and coat – Sherlock noticed it was a different coat, her old one. She apparently had already thrown out all things that reminded her of Charles. Intelligent move.

"Sherlock, why don't you take her home?" Mary asked.

He gave her a confused look. "Why would I do that?"

Mary blinked, startled.

John glared at him. Oh right, it was one of those social things. Sherlock smiled, amending. "I meant, why wouldn't I do that." He got up briskly and grabbed his coat and scarf, pulling on his leather gloves.

"You don't have to, Sherlock," Molly answered. "I'm capable of calling my own cab. Don't worry…Mary, John."

"Come now, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't help you get home after you had a drink."

"Sherlock-"

He put a hand behind her back and led her down the hall despite her protest. "Thank you for the dinner, Mary. Goodnight John," he said.

"Bye, you two!" Mary called. "Have a good night!"

**###**

Molly fiddled with her lock and accidentally dropped her keys. Sherlock reached down to retrieve them and then opened the door for her.

"Thank you," Molly murmured.

Sherlock snorted and then went upstairs to unlock her flat door.

"You don't have to do that. I can take care of it…" Molly muttered.

"It's much more efficient if I do it. You rather have the _butterfingers_ as I recall." Sherlock pushed open the door and allowed Molly inside.

She swallowed and dropped her purse onto her coffee table. Her flat was small, cosy, and clean with little clutter and few dolls that sat on her sofa. She turned around to thank Sherlock for going out of his way and taking her home but was surprised when he stepped inside and closed the door.

"Um- what are you doing?" Molly asked, a yawn seeping through her words.

"You're having nightmares. You need rest," he stated as if the answer was completely obvious.

Molly pressed her lips together giving him a stern look. "Yes and that's normally done without guests as I recall."

"I'm here to be your scarecrow," Sherlock replied easily. "Obviously you're dreaming about a certain someone escaping prison, breaking into your flat, and _killing_ you." His eyes rested on hers.

Molly stared at him and swallowed again.

"I will…stay the night here." He sat down on her sofa, glared at her stuffed animal and then turned his attention to Molly. "Knowing there is someone nearby can help you sleep comfortably."

Molly wasn't sure what to make of this. "Sherlock…I'm flattered…and a bit weirded out…but I assure you, I'm fine."

He rolled his eyes. "I find you lying to me quite insulting to my intelligence." When she didn't say anything, Sherlock let out an exasperated groan. "Molly. Just consider me a scarecrow and go to bed while thinking happy thoughts – it helps. I hate to see my pathologist become a cadaver so rest is necessary if you are going to continue working."

"But…"

"Contemplate this as a present. I'll simply sit in the living room," he added innocently.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Sherlock, I don't need this. You don't have to feel guilty over my current state – they are just _nightmares_. I was the one who made the mistake with…with Charles so this is my punishment and you have no part in it."

"Of course it's _your_ mistake. I'm not feeling guilty either. I'm just doing whatever it is that a friend would do. Considering you're not going to take meds, this is one option." He stared at the cat that pranced into the room and curled around Molly's legs, purring affectionately.

"You're my friend now?" Molly muttered, leaning down and picking up Toby and petting him.

Sherlock took a second before he responded. She was being difficult and prideful. "I know I said that…you didn't count."

"Clearly."

"But we both know that's not true." He looked at her. "I said that through a moment of anger. You've helped me in many ways, Molly. More than just faking my suicide, you believed in me and for that, you cannot be erased. You are undeletable. And will always be a good friend and I-I apologise for what happened to Charles. You understand that I was simply doing my job."

A minute of shear thinking passed. Molly breathed evenly. "Okay." She set Toby back on the floor. "What are you going to do? If…you're going to be my scarecrow?"

"Did you not listen? I said I would sit…and think. That's what I do best."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Sleeping is a waste of time and I only commit the act if my body desperately requires it," he replied, steepling his hands under his chin and crossing his legs. "Go to bed, Molly. I assure you, I won't _do anything_," he answered, bored.

"I…" Based on his comfortable posture, Sherlock wasn't going to move. Shrugging, she just turned around and disappeared into her room, closing the door. _Whatever_, if he got bored and left, that was fine too. Molly pulled off her dress shirt and trousers, slipping into her PJ's that had little drawn kittens.

Sherlock stared at the closed door while thinking why he was doing this and came to two conclusions. One, Molly really was an undeletable virus that latched onto him – the host. So in order to completely delete her, he would have to delete himself and that was just absurd. That, and she still _counted_ – no matter how many times he told himself she didn't it was just a blatant lie. Okay, there was still one more conclusion; he owed her…

Leaning back, he threw her stuffed animal off the couch. Little pink fluffy things and he didn't get along. He took off his shoes and then brought them up onto the cushions.

He thought about Charles and the way he had acted. Sherlock hadn't given himself the time to really think about it (mostly because he didn't want to) but there was something pricking at him about his behaviour. It was a flawless act, with little detection of thought process which was usually involved before one committed to a lie. Sherlock rubbed his bottom lip. The first step into finding Charles innocent – if he, say, was, which he wasn't, would to be find CCTV footage of him from the area in which was having a chat with his lawyer, there would be little hope of capturing anything on that particular street. And his flat, the CCTV had caught him going home no longer before they had arrived so that wasn't helpful in his case.

Sherlock would have to go through his homeless network to trace Charles's last steps. Someone must've seen him.

The clock hit twelve and Sherlock made himself a cup of coffee to keep himself busy and awake. He hadn't slept in the last four days minus a few naps he took in the taxis. With the lack of nutrition and rest, even his body was beginning to protest. Maybe he shouldn't have volunteered to be Molly's dream catcher. He sighed, blinking rapidly and then sipped on his brewed coffee. Molly had an excellent taste for coffee and she could make even the vile instant taste like gourmet. He had yet to figure out how she did it.

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and narrowed his eyes at the clock a few hours later. It was two a.m. He stared at the white and blue wallpaper and just as his eyes were shutting, a scream forced him alert. He didn't waste a second; he fluidly got up and rushed to Molly's door, swinging it open.

Molly was up in her bed, the sheets tangled around her as her hair splashed wildly about her head. She had her face in her hands as she inhaled deeply, trying hard to swallow her intermittent breathing. Was she crying?

"Molly…?"

She didn't answer and continued her self-comforting rocking. Sherlock sat down on the bed and did what John would've done. He placed his hands around her and pulled her towards him. He felt her claw and then grab his shirt, snivelling a little more onto his expensive shirt.

"You're okay," he cajoled.

Thirty seconds later, she was still breathing deeply and he felt the shudders underneath his palms every now and then. Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head, staring at the headboard while wondering how he could possibly fix this one.

**###**

The next morning, Molly awoke with a yawn. She had slept well and was feeling much more relaxed. Pulling down her duvet, she uncovered a specimen next to her. On her bed. Sleeping. Sherlock.

She gasped and nearly fell off her mattress but caught herself halfway. She blinked, remembering that he had held her last night after she had another nightmare attack. It was rather nice of him to offer up a hug but sleeping in her bed seemed like heavy payment. She frowned slightly and leaned over to inspect him.

So much for staying up all night.

Sherlock slept peacefully. All the usual stress lines in his head and eyes were gone and were replaced with nothing but bliss. Oddly, a small – almost a smirk, crawled on his lips but faded away when she leaned towards him curiously. He looked absolutely peaceful. His curls lay loosely on her pillow, his head sinking into her white sheets and his arms apart. He almost looked like a baby. Sherlock's shirt was wrinkled and the first three buttons undone.

Molly swallowed. She had never seen him so…unguarded. She leaned closer, examining his eyelashes and the arc of his eyebrow, the contours of his cheeks and the curve of his lips. Sherlock was flawless.

She didn't want to wake him so she silently slipped out of bed. She looked down at herself and her horrid kitten pyjamas. Maybe at one point, she would've hated herself for not slipping into something sexier if she knew Sherlock was going to spend the night but right now, impressing him was the last thing on her mind. Sure she still had feelings for him, but there weren't just a 'school girl crush' anymore. Perhaps they had gotten more mature, more adult, and much more…deeper and appearance and all that rubbish didn't matter as much as the heart.

* * *

**Note:** _I'm super conscious of this chapter. I think it's because I decided to toy with the Reichenbach fake death idea, and then I decided to let Mycroft in on the fun, and then I decided Molly and Sherlock should share a bed without anything really happening. I know I said you'd get some Sherlolly but it was bit hard to write anything super. So I decided to stick with this for this chapter and hopefully progress in the next. Thank you all for reading and commenting! You guys are awesome!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

Sherlock nuzzled the pillow, moaning as the troublesome sweet aroma made its way up his nostrils, awakening his mind to another day on Earth. He was sleeping rather peacefully and didn't want to get up. He couldn't recall the last time he felt such bliss.

His mind, now fully awakened, reminded him suddenly of where he was. Molly's bed. He rose himself like a mummy and stared at the bedroom, the white duvet, the cloud-like pillows and plain dressers and neatly ironed trousers and blouses that hung in the half open closet. He stood up and blinked a few times, scratched the back of his neck and then proceeded towards the origin of the sweet scent.

Molly was in the kitchen. Fully dressed in her work uniform. This time, she was wearing a jumper that looked like a cross between a cheetah and a zebra with ill-fitting black slacks. Old fashionably unaware Molly was back and it made him smile.

"Oh! Sherlock." Molly caught him standing by the doorframe. "Good morning."

"Morning."

"Are you hungry? I made breakfast."

"I suppose." He wasn't really that famished yet but decided against his better judgment to decline her offer. "What is this?"

"Pancakes. I made a gamble and put some chocolate chips in them. I hope you don't mind." She set a plate of three finely stacked round cakes in front of him.

"I don't usually care much for little things like that. Food is just fuel. No need to be picky." He buttoned up the top of his shirt and looked at the trash bin, seeing today's newspaper tucked inside with a few black scribbles over Charles's eyes in the front article.

Molly took her own plate and sat down across from him. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock wasn't sure why he was feeling nervous. Surely it wasn't because he had fallen asleep, in her bed, when he promised to stay up. Nothing scandalous had gone on and yet, he was feeling the need to explain himself to her.

"Molly…"

"Yes?" she asked, still chewing.

"I, um, apologize for sleeping in your bed without your permission and as well as for not staying up the whole night as I intended to. Yesterday…was - what do they call it? A long day?"

She smiled. "It's alright, Sherlock. You don't have to say anything."

It was hard for Sherlock to comprehend this. Molly wasn't showing any of her usual signs of infatuation. She had just slept in a bed with him, anything of that close proximity would've probably given her a heart attack and yet, she was completely stoical. She wasn't distressed, or shy, just composed and indifferent. There was no flushing cheeks, no desperately concealed grin, and no school-girl crushing eyes. He stared at her probingly. What was wrong with her?

There was more silence between them. Sherlock was kin to silence but in this case, it was quite aggravating. Molly was usually the one to fill up the gaps and annoy him but with her being so quiet and disregarding, it made him feel stiff. So he decided to start a conversation.

"Your dreams are rather aggressive," he said. Once the words left his mouth, he wondered if that was the best topic to bring up. Probably not.

She was slightly taken aback by his statement. "I, erm, know. It's just…" Setting her mug down, she stared at the handle, spinning it left and right. "I have to go to work. If you um, want to, you can freshen up and leave when you're ready. Just remember to lock the door." She shut her eyes and shook her head. "You probably didn't need me to tell you that." She stuffed the last two bites in her mouth at once and took a swig of her coffee then got up and placed her dishes in the sink. She stood there for a moment and then turned around to face him. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "For staying the night and making sure I was okay. It was very…nice of you to do that. It hasn't been easy. I slept well."

Sherlock coughed. "Yes well, good. Mission accomplished."

"I'll be getting off to work then." She went into the living room and grabbed her coat and purse. "Just leave everything where it is. I'll clean it up when I get home." She walked to the door and paused, smiling at him with that friendliness she gave to everybody else. "Goodbye."

"Hm," he nodded.

Once the door closed, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and slouched into his chair. He rubbed his face vigorously and decided to hate Mary and John for telling him to _drop her off_. But he didn't want to think about Molly business right now. He left his plate on the table as she instructed, went into her bathroom to freshen up and then pulled on his coat and left Molly's flat.

**###**

Molly was nervous when she entered the prison. Rubbing her hands, she sat down where the guard ushered her to and waited for them to bring out Charles. She was tired of her nightmares. They took a toll on her body. The only way to overcome them was to face them and that's exactly what she planned to do.

When Charles came out with his hands cuffed in front of him, guards at his side and wearing a dull uniform, he caught her eyes with a general look of surprise. He sat down in front of her, studying her. Molly back went stiff in her seat. She drew in a breath and tried hard not to get up and flee. She couldn't seem to see her warm, loving boyfriend anymore. All she was another Jim Moriarty, another criminal who used her and she hated herself for it.

"You came to see me," he spoke.

"No. I-I came to ask questions," Molly corrected, clearing her throat.

"Ask me anything, darling."

A shiver ran up her spine. "Don't call me darling."

He tilted his head slightly, a hard look in his eyes. He understood what she meant. They were more than over. "Molly…"

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything."

Molly lowered her head, slightly annoyed and angry.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Molly, please don't tell me you believe Sherlock. He's wrong about me. I didn't kill anyone. You understand how Sherlock feels about my position." He leaned in and she moved backwards. "He's been in a jealous rage ever since he returned and it's gotten to his head. He needs a big case like this, he wants to be put on that pedestal again and this _idea_ of me being the bad guy is his way of winning the trophy; winning you and John and everybody else. He thinks of me as a competitor and this game…one of life or death."

Molly didn't dare to let herself believe him. She knew Charles was like Sherlock and that meant he was just as manipulative as him. "Sherlock has rarely been wrong," she said. "You lied about the guns and you have no alibis for the past murders. You didn't think of mentioning anything. You're going away for a long time Charles, if death doesn't catch you first."

He parted his lips, staring at her with perplexity. "Molly…don't say that. Trust me."

"I will not."

"You know me!" His voice rose.

"I've known Sherlock longer," she firmly stated. A gloss of tears formed over her brown eyes and she chewed her lips. Molly was hanging over a fence between love and fear and they were tearing her apart.

"You might've known him longer but you don't understand anything about him. He can be wrong and I hope you develop the mental capacity to realise this and stop following him around like a blind duckling." He clenched his fist under the table. Charles knew full well why Molly held Sherlock in a special place: because his acknowledgement of her existence in comparison with other females made her feel special. However, that's all there was for her and Sherlock and that's all there would ever be. That man would die alone.

"What was I?" Molly asked silently. "You never really loved me, did you?"

His eyes widened. His fists relaxed themselves. "No. No. No." He shook his head. "I still love you, always have."

Her eyes searched him for a hundred different things. For a short while, they simply gazed into each other's eyes, trying to deduce each other's hearts. What was truth, and what were lies?

"I've got to go." Molly stood up.

"Molly!"

"SIT DOWN!" The guard that was watching over them stood up and put a hand over his gun. Charles lowered himself onto his seat grudgingly.

Molly stepped away and didn't cast him another glance before disappearing behind the doors.

**###**

Sherlock was on the other side of town, inquiring with his homeless network about Charles. He had talked to a few of his informants, gathering data but they said it would take time for them to form a timeline. Through his experience, this would take days and the trail was tomorrow. Of course, he would pay them handsomely for it. Though, he was sure they would find nothing. It's not like homeless people were actual surveillance systems.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. It was another congratulatory message from someone telling him how well he did on the case. He'd been getting a lot of them recently and the tabloids had been exploding with news and pictures of him with headlines saying, "Sherlock Holmes, great hero, returns from the dead and puts another murderer behind bars." Sherlock's face was becoming another newspaper favourite and paparazzi were swarming around his flat again. Not to mention the ridiculous 'one' campaign going around social media sites.

#oneSH

Oh yes, he was the only consulting detective, the only Sherlock Holmes but did they have to propagate it? All the attention was giving him a headache. He slipped the phone back into his coat and began walking back to his flat to prepare himself for the tomorrow's first trail.

* * *

So this is a short chapter... Having a bit of a block with this one. Lots of directions to go, not sure what path to take, that sort of thing.


End file.
